Nosferatu
by JMK758
Summary: Vampires are unreal, the stuff of fantasy and fear. But when a real bloodsucker starts hunting the streets of Washington, can Gibbs and his team stop him?
1. The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving

This is my fourteenth NCIS Mystery, and the third of my second Season. The list of stories was getting so extensive I moved them, with synopses, to my profile.  
Jimmy Palmer and Michelle Lee were married in 'Salarium' and are on their Honeymoon. Ducky is being aided by a temporary Assistant, Samantha Sky. Since she's a Medical Examiner -in-Training, I'm able to go into much more detail on autopsies and spend a lot more time with Ducky. So, for all my fans who've been clamoring for more Ducky, I'm pleased to present – _more Ducky_!  
The usual legal disclaimers  
Please Review.  
Rating: T or NCis-17. Death, Intrigue and Mystery.

Nosferatu  
By: JMK758  
Chapter One  
The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving

Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman party with over two hundred other outrageously attired fantasy figures to deafening music in the two story house which can barely contain half that number. Pilgrims, Indians, Pumpkins, Cornucopia and other emblems appropriate to the late November holiday decorate the blue house and yard; inside the scene is more suited to 'The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving'. Witches, ghosts, spiders, vampires and other horrors fill rooms illuminated with rotating spots and lasers of every hue. Fast food, fast music and the occasional fast relationship are the order of the night.

Billed by the only remaining resident of the house, whose parents don't know the use for which the house is being put, as 'Halloween 2'; it's an opportunity for friends and friends of friends and acquaintances of strangers to once again throw off inhibitions behind masks. The music is loud enough that anyone coming to the door to complain about noise would be unheard. 'Monster Mash', 'the Blob', 'Ghostbusters' and 'I Put A Spell On You' compete with newer favorites to shake the trembling house.

The party has been rocking since early evening, and at nearly dawn shows no sign of ending the assault. There are, however, some unfortunate guests for whom the morning brings the burden of work. Sheena Queen of the Jungle and Tarzan's mate Jane stagger up the stairs, trying to support one another as they make their way in search of a room they remembered when they were sober. After some failures, they find "the Master bedroom where the Vampires feast", as Jane would slur the lyrics, by the enormous pile of coats upon the king size bed. The two women stand, with each other's help, and gape at the mountain of cloth as they recall they had been two of the first to arrive last night.

"Awwww, damn," Sheena slurs, clinging to Jane's bare arm, "whaddawe do now?"

"We …" Jane waves her arm at the mass, "… dig, ya dig?"

Laughing at her own joke, unbalanced by her waving arm, Jane topples to her right. Sheena tries to cling to her and they both topple to the floor with a bang that doesn't challenge the blaring stereo downstairs.

x

Clinging to one another, helpless with mirth, they manage to pull themselves to their feet, depending largely upon the overburdened bed. They reach up and start to tug at the nearest coats and let each fall to the floor to build another hill at their feet. Had they been more sober they would have considered restoring the stack to the bed when they're done, but that thought can't penetrate their booze addled brains. As it is, they consider themselves lucky if they can eventually find their own property.

"What coat'd you wear?" Jane asks, wishing the room would stop gyrating.

"Shi, I donno," a sharp pull on a coat nearly topples Sheena over, "a – a whi one, or wus it black?"

"You are a big – frigging – wha-ever. Help, yeah. Help."

"_You_ help – theese 'r hevy."

"Not 's hev az you…"

"_Here_ it iz!" Sheena exults, pulling her brown leather coat from the foot of the bed.

"Whazat?" Jane uncovers a black shoe and white pant leg, which wouldn't bother her if the foot and leg weren't in them.

"Wha ya got there?" The two women pull off the rest of the coats.

Their shrieks are actually heard over the blaring stereo downstairs.

xxx

"Come on, Ziva," Anthony DiNozzo urges the smaller woman as they get off the elevator and walk to the bullpen, "all I'm saying is 'when in Rome–"

"We are not _in_ Rome, Tony, we are in Washington DC." She tosses her backpack down upon her desk, then looks up at the taller man and wishes she could do the same to him. She certainly can, she knows, but their boss Leroy Jethro Gibbs wouldn't appreciate it. Roughness might be appropriate if he were making a fool of himself, but he hasn't reached that stage – yet. Tony is stowing his own gear behind his desk, but she's sure the nonsensical conversation is not over. With him, it rarely ever seems to be. She actually regrets where she'd spent the night, he was far better company last evening. "And even if I were in Rome, it still would not be significant. In fact, I have _been_ to Rome at this time of year and it is certainly not observed."

"That's not the point, Zee-va."

"What's not observed?" Tim McGee asks from his desk, suspecting he'll regret being drawn into this conversation. Exchanges between these two rarely go well, though for the past several weeks they go better than the ones he's had with the fiery woman. For now, however, he can try to be friendly and to moderate their escalating battle.

"What are _you_ doing, Probie?"

Tim, confused, runs his hand through his brown hair, and wonders if it is time for a trim. He'd go back to a buzz, but Shav likes it longer. "I'm finishing up my last notes on the Dawson case."

"Not '_now'_ now, I mean Thursday.

"Ah." Now it makes sense – at least a _little_ sense.

"A uniquely American holiday, which is why I cannot understand why Tony cannot understand why _I_ will not be observing it."

"Well, I just figured you and some significant other–."

"I do not _have_ a 'significant other'!" her glare moves from Tony to Tim, "not any longer." She'd heard his message but is too angry to allow the revelation that acknowledging it would cause. She is not going to reveal that significance has shifted from one man to the other, so she locks her aim on the first.

x

'I was right,' McGee concludes, 'I should've stayed out of it.' He doesn't address her point, hoping it'll go away. "Well, Tony, considering the fact that I don't have the day _off_, I figured I'd just–" he waves his hands over his desk. Actually he does have plans that include a restaurant reservation with an extraordinarily attractive priest, but he's saved from evading this by the entrance of Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

x

"Forget about Thanksgiving, we're going to a Halloween Party."

"Halloween was over three weeks ago, Boss," DiNozzo counters, wondering how long and wild the party had been.

"Tell that to the Trick-or-Treaters." He gathers his gear from his desk drawer. "We've got a dead Seaman in Wythe."

"Where's that?" Tim asks.

"In old Virgin-i-ay, McGooglemap, off 664 just short of Newport News."

"Sailor stationed in Norfolk?"

"Good guess." Gibbs' tone is hardly complimentary.

"Not a guess," he counters, "a foreboding. Parker's going to be thrilled."

The last two times they'd encountered Capt. John Parker, C.O. of Norfolk Station, had been during the incident of the PDC Mark 9, when four Scientists under the Navy's protection had been killed by a fifth, and then again just last week when the head of Disbursement and an uninvolved Petty Officer had been murdered as victims in an embezzlement scheme.

He's sure this is not going to go any better.

xxx

When the Agents arrive at the two story white house seconds before the M.E. truck, they find two MPDC cruisers parked outside and the property cordoned off with yellow 'Crime Scene' tape. Despite the fact that they head for the site of a Halloween party, the festive decorations on lawn and windows relate to a more appropriate holiday. When they enter the house, however, they're bombarded with a cacophony of colors from the horde of costumed revelers.

Fortunately, horde is an overstatement, Gibbs realizes as he surveys the living room. There are only twenty costumed denizens of a warped imagination, though a quick glance tells him these twenty could not have been solely responsible for the volume of food and drink littering the room.

There is a uniformed officer stationed near the door, it is to him that Gibbs turns for answers. "What have you got?" he keeps his voice low enough not to penetrate into the room. In the corner of his eye he sees Ducky and his new female assistant stop in the doorway. He's glad to note that the pale blonde girl finally has a blue coverall jumper that fits her; even one of Ducky's spares was much too large for her five foot two body - and way too tight in the chest for keeping DiNozzo's attention on his work.

"We got the call over three hours ago," the officer tells him, pulling his attention back, "and when we got here there was a dead woman on the bed upstairs. She's wearing Sailor whites, which wouldn't have meant anything here except her ID says she really is Navy. We secured the scene and called your headquarters. Initial reports were that there were upwards of 250 people in this place."

"Three hours, officer?"

"We called it when we made the ID, talk to your Dispatch."

"Oh, I will." He intends to speak to a lot of people about this, particularly since, had it come through on time, this would be a Gamma Shift case.

It's clear, however, that speaking to the twenty who were brave enough to remain to be subsequently held over will achieve little. Anyone they want undoubtedly left ahead of the over two hundred that probably abandoned the building as soon as the body was discovered.

Instead he quickly scans the brave score that'd stayed and his eyes lock on a familiar figure. That is, the face is not familiar but the black and white NCIS cap and the black Federal Agent jacket with silk screened gold shield definitely are. Why the man stands deep in the crowd of cowed revelers is not. "_You,_ he barks, "what are you doing back there?" An agent on the scene should be taking point upstairs.

"Me?" the man points to himself uncertainly. When he steps forward, Gibbs can see he is younger than he'd thought, barely into his twenties.

"Yes, you! Get _out_ here!" When the young man approaches apprehensively, Gibbs' limited patience is at an end. "What are you doing down here? Get to _work_!"

"I - er - that is –" Identically dressed to the aggravated Agent, he knows why the older man is angry. "You see, this is – well – I mean…"

As the situation becomes clear, Gibbs feels his blood pressure peak. Saying nothing more, he holds out his hand. The younger man reluctantly pulls off his cap and gives it to him. Gibbs tosses the offending headwear to DiNozzo and shakes his empty hand. With greater reluctance and embarrassment, the man unzips his jacket, peals it off and hands it to Gibbs, who turns and stalks to the stairs. His own Agents trail in his wake, not one of them foolish enough to say a word.

x

In the upstairs bedroom several MPDC Officers are already dusting the room for fingerprints and collecting evidence. Their attention, however, locks upon the body which lays supine upon the bed.

"The body was arranged," Gibbs notes immediately. No one, seeing the position, is going to question this conclusion.

Surrounded on bed and floor by such coats as hadn't been removed by fleeing revelers lies the body of a Navy Sailor, pinned insignia gives her rank as 'Seaman Apprentice' and her name 'A. Costa' and she's wearing Jumper Whites rather than the Blues she's expected to wear in November. Her white pants and panties are pushed down to her right ankle, her left leg and foot completely bared. Her legs are together, her hands arranged across her bare stomach, giving a chilling impression of repose. The white top is raised under her arms, her bra pushed up. The black kerchief is still tied, and at the left side of her neck a six inch splotch of maroon blood has soaked into the sheet and likely into the mattress below.

"Now that," DiNozzo says as he leans over her body to see the two small holes in the woman's neck, "is one wild hickey."

"Doesn't look like a hickey to me," Samantha Sky, Ducky's assistant during Jimmy and Michelle Palmer's honeymoon, mutters as she comes around the foot of the bed. Though her voice conveys her horror and disgust, she is unable to take her eyes off the motionless woman.

Costa's white and black cap is beside her head. Her blonde hair, rather than pinned up as per regulations, flows free, and her deep blue eyes stare upward at the ceiling. She's nearly colorless, her pale flesh whiter than can be expected considering the limited splotch of visible blood that has settled about six inches from the wound in her neck.

"Raped by a vampire," Samantha, running her hand through her pale blonde, pixie-cut hair, says uncomfortably, "that really sucks."

x

Ducky, receiving Gibbs' nod when Ziva indicates she's taken a sufficient number of close and medium photographs, steps around the bed beside his assistant to examine the still body. He will touch nothing, not until Ziva has taken all the necessary distant photographs, but even such a visual examination as he may make will provide answers.

He glances to the young woman beside him, handing her a cap and set of gloves, the former of which she pulls over her short, pale blonde hair and pulls her hands into extra small latex gloves much more suited to her petite stature.

"Examining the young lady," he says, "what is the first thing you discern?" Despite his earlier stated intent not to be a teacher, his relationship with his new aide is very much Mentor and Student.

Samantha - 'Sammy' to everyone she knows - restrains her natural first inclination to say 'she's dead', having learned quite early that the tall Senior Agent on the other side of the bed doesn't share in her persistent good humor. She presses at the mattress in several places along the length of the woman's body, not touching her flesh. "She's pale but there's no lividity and nowhere _near_ enough blood."

"And why do you say that?"

Sammy looks to the man at her left. "The policeman said they got the call over three hours ago, add time since death of a conservative half-hour, that's nearly enough time for lividity to be fixed," she points to the flesh just above the mattress, "but there isn't any, or hardly any. It's like she bled out, but that spot," she points to the stain at the side of the woman's neck, "is nowhere _near_ enough."

"Exactly. So, where's the blood?"

Sammy searches the room with her eyes, disturbed to see that no surface in the room is covered in spatter. Looking again at her Mentor, she says the three words she's come to hate above all others during her week in NCIS. "I don't know." She can't believe the look of satisfaction on Mallard's face. "Do you?"

"I do not, Miss Sky. But together we shall find out. Let's let Officer David collect her photographs; then we shall see what we may see."

x

"I hate Halloween," Tony says, "and I'm not at all fond of 'Halloween Two'. I keep expecting Michael Myers to jump out of a closet. But even worse than Halloween, I hate vampires."

"Since when?" Ziva asks, continuing to take pictures, this time starting in the corner of the room.

"Since I used to have nightmares about them a couple of years ago."

"Let me guess; sexy, beautiful Hammer film vampiresses in long, bosom-baring push up nightgowns, long flowing hair and sexy, dainty fangs."

"Well, yeah, but that's not the _point_!"

"With beautiful, bosom baring women, Tony, there is no other point, except perhaps in your –"

"I went to a party as a blue 'Elf Lord' this year," McGee cuts her off.

"With your Redskin's Snow Queen?" Though knowing better, Tony can't resist, especially when he sees the look in the Probie's eyes and knows he has scored a direct hit. The Snow Queen was last year, and he never had succeeded in melting her.

"No, Tony, I didn't." There is also no chance he'll say anything more, not with Ziva present. The party had actually been at Hamilton Hall adjoining St. Mary the Virgin Church, and his date had been a red devil attired completely against type.

"Sammy," Tony turns to the young woman waiting near the foot of the bed for McGee to finish, "did you go 'Trick or Treating'?"

"Not exactly, I went to a party."

"As what?"

A smile spreads slowly upon her lips. "A bosom-baring vampiress with a push up nightie and dainty fangs."

"I'd love to have seen that."

"I thought you were afraid of vampires."

"Sometimes you just have to face your fears."

"You're going to be facing me when I miss the back of your head," Gibbs warns.

"Sketches! On it, boss!"

x

When Ducky and Sammy can approach the woman's body again, the Examiner shuts the investigators out of his attention. "Let us first examine the body as a whole before delving into specifics. Looking at our unfortunate friend, what do you perceive?

"Well," Sammy begins, having had time to make a lot of observations while carefully drawing no conclusions, "she's very pale, almost as though she'd bled out. Rigor has set into her hands, feet and ankles, as well as her neck but there's not much lividity – far too little in fact. There's some bruising on the backs of her hands, and some of her nails are broken, these two are bent back. There are ligature marks about her neck, looks like she'd been strangled, but they're … they don't look like rope or wire, they're … I'm sorry, I don't recognize the shape. There are also the two wounds on the left side of her neck, and these show capillary damage in a ring about them."

"How large and deep?" he asks, handing her a graduated probe, which she lays beside the two holes and pauses while David photographs it. The investigators will use a ruler to get a clearer judgment of size and width, he wants as much evidence as possible.

"The holes are one and eleven sixteenth inches from the upper part of the top one to the lower point of the other. The outer ring is an irregular circle with a maximum width of two and five sixteenths." She reverses the probe in her hand and inserts the tapered end carefully, stopping at the first resistance and withdraws it. She then takes another probe from the bag at their feet and measures the second wound. "Nine sixteenths deep; that should be enough to puncture right though the Jugular vein," Ducky looks across the bed to say something to Gibbs, "and I think she was unconscious when he bit her."

He turns back. "Why do you say that?"

"The elasticity of the skin and the measurements are too average. If he tried to bite me I'd flinch, try to use my head and shoulder to block him, and when her neck relaxes the marks would be distorted, expanded. Or he'd have to yank my head to the right, maybe pull my hair," she indicates Costa's unmessed tresses, "and stretch the skin so when I relaxed the marks would be smaller. On her, there's also no distortion, and the wounds seem to be made at the same angle. Of course, if he bit her in a less pliant spot I could tell better; that's just my take."

"And an excellent one, I think."

She hands the probes back to Ducky. Since they have blood on them he places them into evidence bags she holds and labels them. They'll be sent to Abby for analysis, to determine if there is anything foreign mingled with the blood.

"Please continue," Ducky directs. He is not done evaluating her work.

"Well, there are no other obvious injuries beyond those to her hands and fingers." She looks up at Gibbs. "Can I move her?"

They already have an extensive series of photos. "Go ahead."

x

Sammy goes to the foot of the bed, takes hold of the woman's left knee and moves it no more than two inches, enough to see what she'd hoped she would not. She closes her eyes, whispering "Oh Jesus!"

"What is it?" Gibbs asks, unable to see anything from his angle. Sammy glances at Ducky, but he makes no sign he's going to answer the question. By the time she answers he's joined her, obliging her to elaborate for everyone else in the room.

"There are two more holes, same size, in her upper left thigh; it looks like they hit the femoral artery. At nine sixteenths it would still be enough, with adequate pressure, to reach the artery. He'd have to bite hard, which he obviously did to leave such deep impressions of the other teeth, but it's possible. Blood would've shot out like a geyser, but there's only a little bit on the mattress. All I can see is what leaked down her leg and covered a few inches of the sheet."

"What are we looking for, Duck?" Gibbs asks, hoping to get a psych profile of the loon.

"A vampire," Sammy says, staring at the wound, therefore unable to see Gibbs' expression.

He doesn't call her on it, however. Considering the eclectic collection of revelers downstairs, a vampire comes as no surprise.

The blonde apprentice moves away to allow Ziva to get these pictures, she'd rather forget having seen any of it.

DiNozzo steps closer so that his voice does not carry further than the slight young woman. "You really think we're looking for vampires?"

"Don't you believe in vampiri, Agent DiNozzo?"

"Vampires," DiNozzo corrects.

"Actually," McGee cuts in, "since the publishing of Brian Lumley's books well over a decade ago, 'vampiri' has become an accepted plural, while 'vampirii', two i's , refers to vampires collectively. Then again, Laurell Hamilton's 'Anita Blake' series coined a collection of vampires as a 'Kiss', a play on the bite being euphemistically referred to in Victorian and later literature as a 'kiss'."

"McGee?"

"Yes, Boss?"

"My hand is going to kiss the back of your head if you don't get back to work. DiNozzo, get downstairs and interview the leftover Hellspawn. Ziva, you're helping."

x

"Miss Sky?" Ducky snatches her attention.

She turns back, not wanting to. "Yes?"

"What more can you tell me? Us?"

"Well …" she gets in close beside him, trying not to crowd the older man, "the ligature marks about her throat are too thin and irregular to be a rope. It's _probably_ not a garrote though; it didn't cut her skin like a wire might." She points to the hands folded upon the woman's stomach. "There's bruising at the backs of each hand, from knuckles to midway along the backs of her hands. Her nails are short," she picks up the woman's right hand, already starting to stiffen with rigor, "but they were bent backward at the ends of the middle and ring fingers of her right hand, and the middle and index fingers of her left."

"Can you give me a time of death?" Gibbs asks.

Ducky hands her a liver probe. She measures the spot in the woman's bare abdomen carefully. "Sorry, this is gonna hurt," she whispers softly, though not softly enough as she pushes the long implement through the pale flesh.

"She's been listening to you too well," Gibbs comments.

"It is never too soon to develop an appropriate empathy with our patients," Ducky chides, his tone carrying the additional remonstration '_I_ am supervising this examination, thank you very much'.

x

Samantha, uncomfortable at the jibe – she hadn't thought being influenced by the man's predilections to be a bad thing – waits impatiently for the numbers on the rectangular display to cease changing. When they do, she glances at the thermometer attached to the black bag on the floor, using the room temperature in her calculations.

"Well, the body was under a pile of coats – which so many people moved we'll have to search them for blood to see which, if any, were laying right on her even if all of them were here. Her liver temperature is 92.3, which under normal circumstances will decline at an average rate of 1.5 degrees per hour. Taking into account her insulation and the room being 69 degrees, 98.6 minus 92.3 divided by 1.5, I'd say over four hours ago, at least four and fifteen."

"Metro PD got here over three hours ago."

"Leaving a window of over an hour for our perpetrator to make his escape," Ducky concludes, not having missed that Gibbs had looked to him when Sammy had given her estimate on the time. He didn't answer the questioning glance, there was no need.

"Along with over two hundred other people," McGee reminds them. The scene had probably looked like roaches fleeing when a lightswitch is turned on.

"So how did she die?"

Again Ducky doesn't answer the question directly, determined he will only say something if Sammy is grossly wrong. There is no better way to move from classroom training to certainty than through field experience, and he's determined that she shall have all he can give her.

His look to Samantha clearly tells her she won't be out of the hot seat until she's done.

x

"Well, you'll have to examine the mattress to make sure no more blood soaked in than I think did," she tells them, gratified for the chance to turn book learning into the real thing, "but the stains aren't all that big, so I'd be really surprised if they were deep, but it's the cleanliness of the wounds that concern me."

"The perp washed her."

"More than that, Jethro," Ducky counters, "come closer." Gibbs comes around the foot of the bed and Ducky motions him to bend close to her neck. "What do you smell?"

He straightens quickly. "Ammonia, bleach," the scent, together with that of death, is not a pleasant combination.

"Yes, I believe Abby will discover it is indeed a combination of those pungent chemicals that the perpetrator used in an attempt to destroy traces of his DNA over the wound."

"You really think he sucked the blood out?"

Ducky nods to Sammy, Gibbs turns to her but doesn't repeat himself. She raises each of Costa's eyelids to look under them and finds small dots of blood in the soft conjunctivae and sclera of the eyes. "There's Petechial hemorrhaging, which indicate a massive and rapid increase in blood pressure, yet most of her blood is just … gone. There's bruising of the epidermal layer that I think Agent DiNozzo described as 'a really wild hickey', but I'd say you're right. Someone sucked her blood."

"How much did he suck?"

"Well, I'd say her pressure was up from fighting him and everything he was doing to her, note the bruising and bent fingernails, but as he sucked she'd eventually pass out." She continues examining the body closely, quoting as much from the book as from what she sees. "The average body has about 6 liters of blood, but the loss of even 1 liter would put her into shock. I think she'd die by the time she lost about three, four at the most. Her heart would go into averal arrhythmia, meaning the heart begins beating in a fast but irregular pattern, fibrillation.

"Atrial," Ducky corrects.

"Atrial, yes, sorry."

"Go on."

"She wouldn't have lasted long once the femoral artery was punctured - I give her about a minute. If she'd lost a lot through the neck, _maybe_ a half. I can't tell you any better until the Autopsy."

"Can I check her pockets?" This time Gibbs doesn't ask his M.E.

Sammy's surprised at the deferment. "Go ahead."

There isn't much in them, her Navy ID names her as Seaman Apprentice Angelina Costa, assigned to Norfolk Station. A small bill fold contains a civilian ID card and $34 cash. There's a key ring with two keys upon it and she has a cell phone in her pocket. All of these he deposits into clear bags, labels, signs and places them into the Evidence bag.

The cell phone could be the most potentially valuable item in the collection.

xx

DiNozzo and David interview the revelers brave enough to await the police, none of whom are happy about the price of their bravery, It's been a very long three plus hours, several of them are already well into sobriety. DiNozzo's attention is first on the only resident of the house present, a nineteen year old College student.

"You're here alone?" he asks. He doesn't believe the claim.

"Yeah, man, my folks are off visiting my grandma in Utah for the holiday. I told them I had to study for mid-terms."  
"Let me guess, you also told them there'd be no parties while they were gone."

"You got it."

"I've got it." He doesn't want it. "So, who was here?"

"I donno. It started out just the House, you know, Alpha Chi Delta, but then it sorta –"

"Wait a minute! You're Alpha Chi Delta?"

"Yeah, man, you know us?"

DiNozzo knows them very well; his own House had been legendary. But those active in his day are now professional men of accomplishment – with only one known exception, Luke Walters, a resident of Danville Correctional. He feels no affinity for this young airhead and so, for the first time in his life, he commits the unpardonable sin. "No, I don't know them."

He'll see Mother O'Mallory about it on Tuesday.

"So tell me about this girl. Who did she come with?"

"Man, I donno; you know how it is, we invited people who invited people who invited people who brought their friends who brought guys and gals they know and it just picked up from there. There hadda be way over two hundred at some points, people coming and going all hours."

"You mean you had _no_ idea who was coming into your home or robbing you blind?" DiNozzo is unable to believe his irresponsible carelessness.

"No way, my parents have everything insured."

DiNozzo doesn't even try. Forget robbery, someone had committed _murder_. "All right, did anyone see anything?"

"I donno. I had all I could do to keep track of the food and the beer kegs."

"You didn't see anyone take her upstairs?"

"Upstairs, downstairs, in the closets, we had people packing every room. I don't think I even saw that babe _alive_. There were just too many people. I had enough trouble keeping one Xena straight from another, you know? The only place off limits was my folks' bedroom and we stacked the coats there."

"I know you did."

The sole reason DiNozzo doesn't give up is that Gibbs will not tolerate failure to get answers, unlikely though it may be that any answer will be useful.

x

McGee stays upstairs with Ducky, Sammy and the Police Forensic Unit – who are still there to collect their own data until told otherwise – to gather evidence while Gibbs joins DiNozzo and David in weeding through the score of oblivious revelers. Gibbs feels it could have been worse; they could all have run. DiNozzo is inclined to let the brave ones go, Costa's murderer is certainly long gone.

The trio is halfway through the crowd when a very briefly attired Supergirl gives a piercing shriek and Gibbs and the others whirl to see her standing near the steps leading to the second floor. Her hands are pressed to her mouth in a decidedly un-superheroine-like pose as Ducky and McGee carry the gurney and occupied black body bag down the stairs.

By the time the men have wheeled the gurney out the door, several of the women behind them are weeping. Gibbs, having already determined that none of the overwhelmed mourners knew the deceased Sailor, resigns himself to this being a very long morning.

xxx

When they leave the house, the Agents are besieged by reporters who charge as soon as the doors open and twenty people ask twenty questions in twenty accents and seemingly as many languages. "Agent Gibbs, what happened in there?" "How many are dead?" "Is this an attack on the Navy?" "Is the deceased a Navy Officer?" "Who killed her?" "Was she raped?" "Was it a bloodbath?" "It is true the murderer is a vampire?"

This last brings Gibbs to a stop, he doesn't have to wonder who leaked this detail, only how badly it's going to corrupt his case. "A vampire?"

"Witnesses say the woman was killed by a vampire," the woman tells him.

"Is that so? They haven't said it to me."

"Is NCIS on a vampire hunt?" another reporter asks. Gibbs can just see Director Shepherd's face when she calls him into her office.

"_No one_ is looking for a vampire!"

"Then you're saying he's already been dug up?"

"That's it, show's over."

"What do we tell our readers?"

"Whatever you want, you bloodsuckers do it already."

"_Detective_ Gibbs!" an intense woman pushes to the front, her mistake just enough to snatch his attention, "would you please answer _one_ question?"

"One."

"Would you have lunch with me, Casa Dia, at twelve noon?"

x

Of all possible questions he'd been prepared to rebuff, this one he'd never expected. Looking into her eyes, he finds an intensity of a kind he'd not encountered with any of the bloodhounds that surround them. It doesn't hurt that she's a charming redhead. He pulls his wallet out, opens it and hands her a card. "Call to confirm, I'm going to have a busy morning."

He walks out of the crowd, not certain who is the more surprised.


	2. Autopsy

Chapter Two  
Autopsy

Samantha Sky draws down the zipper of the body bag upon the wheeled gurney but is unable to take her eyes from the still face of Angelina Costa. When Ducky turns to her, she's still staring.

"Are you all right, Samantha?"

"Hm?" His words break her out of her fugue. "Oh, sorry, just thinking. I know she had to ride in the bag like this, but it's still wrong." No effort had been made to adjust her clothes, though paper bags enclose each hand up to her forearms.

"Sad but unavoidable. We may learn something from the position of her clothing that may shed some light on this case."

"It's just so wrong. We're going to take pictures of her that'll be on file forever, in court everyone will see her like this, her parents…." She sighs, unable to do anything to change what she knows must be. "I just wish–"

"What we do here is the most invasive procedure that will ever be done to the people we meet, which is why I speak to them, to establish a rapport, such as it is."

"Don't worry, Gina," Sammy says, touching her forehead lightly, "Ducky and I are going to find out who did this to you – _and they're going to __**pay**_!"

"Samantha?" A rapport is one thing, anger or vengeance far different.

"_Please_, Ducky!"

"Sammy." He's not going to call her on her passion; he feels the same way about the atrocious fate this woman has suffered. It is unusual, however, for anything to break Sky's persistent good humor, and so very intensely. "Would you like to change so we may begin?"

"Yes, sir," she says, eyes downcast. She goes to the silver door which fronts the store room where her small scrubs have been substituted for Palmer's towering clothes.

x

Ducky remains, changing his own clothing in relative privacy, and when he has lifted Gina Costa's body onto the table Sammy returns. "I'd have helped."

"Not necessary. I've done it quite a number of times." He pauses, his eyes looking back into eternity. "Quite a number."

"Doctor?"

He pulls himself out of his own fugue, points to the body between them, and continues as though he hadn't stopped. "As you can see, rigor mortis is already under way. This progresses downward along the body from crown and upward from feet to the larger muscles of the legs in a predictable pattern over several hours, affected by a number of factors including body mass, ambient temperature, muscle strain or fatigue, et cetera. Caused by the loss of adenosine triphosphate in the muscles, it commences in the smaller muscles of the face and the extremities.

"As the level of ATP declines, the body assumes this rigid stance, and the rigidity remains until the muscles themselves begin to decay, which again follows the same smaller to larger pattern. We can utilize calculations based upon heat remaining in the liver over twenty to twenty four hours together with the rate of advancement of rigor to determine both the time of death and also the stress that the body was under before death.

"Of course, other factors must be accounted for. For instance, if someone had run a long distance fleeing from an assailant, they would use up vast amounts of ATP and rigor would occur very rapidly in the legs even before in the smaller muscles of the hands."

"Yes, Doctor."

Her tone attracts his attention up from the body and he finds her grinning at him. In his desire to impart knowledge as well as cover his own regret, he'd quite 'forgotten' she's a fourth year Medical student working toward her Doctorate next year, not a secondary school freshman.

x

"Very well then, how shall we begin?"

"Don't you know?" She's still smiling at him.

"It is one thing to score highly on tests and in supervised autopsies, my dear," he chastises, "quite another to be proficient in the field. Having just come upon this case, how would you proceed?"

"Oh. Well, first I'd weigh and measure, take pictures; panoramic, full, medium, close and detail of her clothed as she is. Then I'd take the paper bags – after labeling them – off her hands and send them and the body bag up to Abby. I'd take scrapings from under each fingernail; that and a clipping from each nail would go into 10 individually labeled mini bags. Then I'd remove her clothes, such as are _left_, for Abby to examine and take another full set of pictures. Next I'd cut samples of her hair to match against any hair I find."

"Where would you obtain the hair?"

"Her head, eyebrows, lashes, underarms if she has any there and pubic hair. Then I'd comb out her pubic hair for anything that _wasn't_ hers. Next I'd do a set of x-rays and begin documenting any injuries, lacerations and contusions, along with any tattoos, birthmarks and other distinguishing features. Then I'd use a swab to search for sperm, acid phosphatase and P30 in her vaginal tract."

"Very well, proceed."

It is perhaps her best deer-in-the-headlights stare.

"You know the steps to take. I have already done the heavy lifting."

"Oh." She recovers, realizing he's serious about the order, and grins to cover her own disconcertion. "I thought you were just duckying out on the work."

"Not at all. You will work; I shall supervise."

xxx

"Go right in, Agent Gibbs," Cynthia Sumner says as he opens the outer door to the Director's offices, "she's waiting for you."

It's never a good sign, he reflects, when he doesn't have a confrontation with Shepherd's aide trying to keep him from barging into her office without permission. It's when he's sent for that things are bad, and this time he has no doubts about the reason for the summons.

When he enters the inner sanctum, the red haired woman behind the desk puts down the paper she was reading, removes her glasses and sets them atop the file, rubs her already tired eyes and looks up at the man standing before her.

"Vampires?"

Gibbs shrugs, as much to say 'what can you do?' Shepherd picks up a remote control and aims it at the plasma screen mounted on the wall to her left. On it appears a medium close-up of a woman's brightly illuminated face, a familiar house in the background.

"Sources inform us that the unidentified woman discovered in an upstairs bedroom had allegedly been raped and murdered by a _vampire_."

The scene instantly shifts to another reporter for a competing station, and this man states that "Federal Authorities are downplaying reports of several alleged murders by a Coven of Vampires."

"Lee's gonna be pissed," Gibbs observes, refusing to be drawn into the conflict, which only causes Shepherd to glare at him before she switches to another recorded report.

"This one's my favorite." Her tone makes it clear it is no such thing.

The man on the screen is the readily familiar ZNN morning anchor. "We have reports from eye-witnesses that a high ranking United States Navy Officer was allegedly found tortured, raped and murdered in this suburban home. Federal Authorities state that it was allegedly the work of a Vamp–" the screen goes dark.

"Those aren't the worst, but they'll do. I'm sure Seaman Apprentice Costa would be flattered by the promotion - if she weren't dead."

Gibbs is sure lurid details of the Vampire Murder fill every station with unbridled speculation and specious news. It's obvious none of the twenty revelers who remained at the house had kept their mouths shut and, knowing nothing, had proceeded to embellish beyond even unreasonable limits.

"Now, what really happened?"

"I'm more interested in why Metro called us in three hours before we got there."

Her face reflects her feeling. "I haven't heard that."

"You are now."

"I'll look into it. Now, tell me what happened."

xxx

"Done," Samantha declares unnecessarily after she has completed the final step of her outlined procedure. It had taken her more than an hour to complete the job and Ducky had remained silent throughout, offering neither comment nor direction.

"And quite competently done. Now, examining the body in its present state, tell me what you see."

"Well," Sammy tries to put aside the details of the woman's condition and to see her as a whole. She's silent as she examines the body and Ducky doesn't press her.

"The backs of her hands are scraped and bruised, just as you told Agent Gibbs and the others, but there's not a lot of bruising, so it looks like this happened just before she died. But it doesn't look like normal defensive wounds. The nails being bent back may also be defensive wounds, but I'm not sure how. I found some skin under her nails, but not quite all of them. She's a sailor, trained to defend herself, but I'd expect to see the bruising on the forward part of her knuckles if she fought back."

"Yes, you would, wouldn't you?"

She looks up, wondering at his tone, but he gives her no answers, not even a clue. "The ligature marks about her neck are thin, but there's irregular shape to them, like the … something, was crossed over. It doesn't look like a rope, or even a thin cord. Can we turn her over?"

"Absolutely." Together, they do so and Samantha brushes aside Costa's long blonde hair. She finds the marks converge in several rotating clockwise patterns.

"I think I –" she starts to cut herself off, then decides to go with her impression. The worst she can be is wrong. "I think I know what happened."

"Do proceed."

"If a plastic bag were put over her head and twisted, wouldn't it have made this kind of mark?"

"It could indeed."

"The conjunctive tissue under her eyes had petechial hemorrhages, which would happen since if she's suffocating she's breathing hard, and her blood pressure skyrockets. And her nails being bent back, if someone were trying to smother me, the first thing I think I'd do would be to try to break the plastic with my nails, free up my mouth and nose." She holds out her gloved hands, her close trimmed nails extend barely a quarter inch but are still slightly shorter than Costa's already clipped nails.

"And if you were being smothered from behind?"

Sammy's expression brightens. "I'd be punching backward, swinging my fists up to his face or body," she points to the backs of Costa's hands, "so I'd be hitting with the backs of my hands rather than the fore knuckles. And as I was going down …."

x

She examines the backs of Costa's hands again from this perspective, then looks at her elbows, both of which are bruised from joint to about five inches up her forearm. "Yes! When punching doesn't work, I'm starting to pass out, maybe fall to my knees, I'll put my hands together and twist back and forth to use my elbows to hit."

"How long would it take for her to pass out?"

Sammy considers carefully, hoping she can calculate the same answer the man already has in his head. "Caught off guard from behind, probably half drunk – _I'd_ have to be half bombed to let a guy get me into a bedroom at a party – scared, fighting hard, I'd say about a minute or two."

"And when the pressure around the supposed bag is released?"

"I'd wake up."

"How long?"

Again Sammy considers carefully, "The longer I'm smothered, the longer I'm out, but never more than a minute or two. Right now, if I were smothered I'd be out in two minutes tops, but keep it up to four to five and I'd be dead, definitely before six. But she was alive when he was sucking her blood and raping her."

"_Presumably_ ingesting her blood," Ducky corrects.

"But what about the ammonia and bleach?" Could he have forgotten that detail, or is this a test inside a test – inside a test?

"That does indicate a probability that they were used to destroy any DNA evidence, but that has yet to be confirmed."

"Yes, sir. But he didn't use a condom, the swabs showed that, so if he was trying to hide DNA he's an idiot because did a pretty lousy job."

"It is still too soon to gather conclusions about his mental state, even though I am inclined to agree, and we shall pass that along to Agent Gibbs as well. Be cautious, however, about drawing conclusions."

"Yes, doctor."

"So, you now have a cogent theory. What would you look for to determine if it is correct?"

She considers for a few moment, glad he gives her those moments. Professor Bullock wouldn't. "If she _was_ being smothered by a plastic bag, probably several times or there wouldn't be enough time to do anything – maybe she kept waking up and he kept smothering her over and over again –," she shudders at the prospect, "then when I go in I'd look for evidence of asphyxia."

"And the most certain evidence would be?"

"Atelectasis; the collapse of individual alveoli in one or both lungs, or the collapse of the lungs themselves."

"Very good, Ms. Sky. Now let us investigate the bite wound itself. Sadistic or directed?"

"Both," she decides.

"How so?"

"There's _always_ sadism in a man who bites a woman, particularly during rape, like the _bastard_ who nearly bit my nipple o–!" Her face turns scarlet as she looks up at Ducky, then down and away. "Please, Ducky," she whispers when she can force herself to speak, "please forget I said that! _Please_!"

He doesn't answer, carefully controlling his own expression. He now understands some of her earlier, then-surprising anger, but though he says nothing now he will not forget. There will be a more appropriate time to address this issue – much later.

"Let us proceed to examine the wounds."

xxx

Gibbs descends the stairs after briefing Director Shepherd on their latest outré case, beginning to feel lately that that is all they get. By the time he reaches the bullpen he's had his fill of answering questions and is more than ready for answers of his own. "What have you got, people?"

DiNozzo picks up the plasma screen remote, clicking on the wide display mounted between his desk and McGee's; Gibbs pauses for a closer look. On the screen is the Navy's Official Personnel record of Seaman Apprentice Angelina Costa, considerably more presentable than when he'd seen her last. She wears her blue Sailor's uniform, her hair is pulled up and under her cap in regulation styling and her expression is bright, clear and eager. The information to the left of her picture displays the details of her service. The date of assignment is barely three months ago.

"Gina Costa, born August 31, 1991 in Richmond, Virginia to George and Vera Costa. He's a former SEAL, she's a Mystery writer."

"She has three books featuring a Military Investigative Team from an Agency we're all intimately familiar with," McGee puts in. "Sales are considered 'moderate' by the Publisher."

"Yours?" They've dealt with his publisher, with unpleasant consequence.

"No."

"Ever read any of them, Elf – McGee?" After the late summer drama they had endured, he's determined never again to address the man by that appellation.

"No, sir, but I will by the time the family gets out here. The Navy has not contacted them pending Ducky's confirmation of death." The Navy will not act before the M.E. has established that the deceased is indeed Gina Costa, daughter of Peter and Vera, assigned to Norfolk. They know that in a case such as this, the body will not be available for viewing for several hours. Then there will be a 24 hour period before any official release is made to the public, despite the fact that newshounds are already running over the field with the meaty news in their hungry mouths.

"She enlisted right out of High School;" DiNozzo continues, "her grades weren't spectacular but she stuck with it. Her Apprenticeer, PO1 Ann Murphy, gave her a definite 'maybe' about advancement if she applied herself. I'm sure that's what she told her to motivate her, but that was what she also put into the file. Costa's record in the past four months has been okay; no disciplinary problems, and before she signed up there was no indication of drug use, alcohol consumption before she got in could have used a bit of an improvement but not many High Schoolers are teatotalers."

xxx

"Hi Agent Gibbs!" Sammy exclaims when she sees him enter through the sliding doors.

'Someday I'm going to get used to her,' he thinks, trying to endure her bright enthusiasm, 'but it's going to take a lot longer than she has.'

He steps up to the table and finds Ducky and Sky deep in Gina Costa's open chest. "What have you got, Duck?"

"Gina Costa's internal organs appear healthy, what you'd expect from a woman in her late teens. There is no indication of smoking, drug or alcohol use, at least none that had an obvious effect on her." He removes his latex gloves, tosses them into the receptacle beside the table.

"It appears that she was smothered, several times in fact, using perhaps a heavy ply plastic bag twisted behind her neck. It would have to be heavy ply or she might have been able to punch or tear through it. Several of the alveoli in both lungs had collapsed as a result of trying to breathe against the obstruction. Pressure from the contracting diaphragm forces the lungs to try to expand, they can obtain no air and the individual alveoli collapse. Eventually the entire lung gives way like a sucked out balloon. But despite evidence of one or more successive suffocations, she did not die from asphyxia.

"She died of massive blood loss. The first attack seems to have been to her throat, possibly before or during her rape, the second to the femoral artery was the fatal one."

"How much blood?" This is rapidly becoming his least favorite before lunch topic.

"I should say approximately 4 liters. As you are aware, the human body contains approximately 6 liters. She was alive during all the time this was done to her; we can only pray she was spared consciousness. We found evidence she fought against her attacker – ineffectually."

"Set the scene. What did he do?"

"It appears he lured her into the bedroom and smothered her from behind. We found bruising on the backs of her hands and the upper portions of her elbows, but these were the only bruises we discovered. After she was unconscious, she was sexually assaulted. I find no evidence of vaginal contractions, which leads me to believe she was unconscious during the assault."

"Or dead?"

"No, Jethro. I sent samples from the rape kit that included emissions. At some point in the assault, he bit her. I found traces of what Abby confirmed as saliva inside the wound that were not cleaned away by washing her in bleach and alcohol. He partially drained her blood in this manner. Even if she were to recover consciousness it would be fleeting and it is highly unlikely she would have been able to offer any resistance. At some point he turned his attack to her femoral artery of her left leg. Blood loss from that wound would have been rapid and catastrophic, yet you'll recall there was even less blood on the mattress between her legs than at her throat. He continued to drain her to the point that she finally died and the flow of blood ceased. The cause of death, Jethro, was exsanguination."

xxx

"Ducky sent me up the specimens from the rape kit," Abby tells him fifteen minutes later, "and they were positive. But I can't tell if the sex was consensual or not."

Gibbs refrains from commenting on 'consensual rape'. Rape is a legal term; medically they are only dealing with intercourse, or at least penetration, until an A.D.A. proves otherwise.

"All the kit tells me is that there is semen and other male fluids in her, but there's no bruising. With the amount of blood she lost, I don't think she could form a bruise – which is essentially clustered and clotted coagulated blood."

She brings up several pictures on the plasma screen, each more explicit and intrusive than the previous one. "Her shirt is up, her pants and panties down and off," she says unnecessarily, but Gibbs doesn't reprimand her for describing the obvious. Unlike DiNozzo, there is usually something to be learned from a dissertation on the obvious, and these are the last seconds or minutes of someone's life. "There was less than a tenth of a liter of blood soaked into the mattress, so you're looking for a _lot_ of missing blood.

"I'm also doing DNA tests; we'll get her DNA from NIDIS." Since 1998 the FBI has been compiling a DNA database; they could get it from the Navy directly but with all the regulations involved in how this information is made available and to whom, sometimes it's easier to go through a middle man. "I'm isolating his from the semen. I'll let you know when, and if, I get a match."

"When will you know?"

"I'm at the PCR – that's polymerase chain reaction to the layman – phase now; give me time. You use enzymes to separate the two DNA strands and force them to replicate using raw material to build up a new set, then you do it again and again. Eventually you have enough to test, and then you do an STR or Short Tandem Repeat to get the fingerprint."

"How long?"

"Have a long lunch – then see me after breakfast."

"Abby–"

"Twenty hours if I pull an all-nighter. I told you Gibbs, you can't rush science. You can gripe at it, you can yell at it, you can spank it if you're into that and I am but you can't rush it. Twenty hours and not a second sooner."

x

"What do you think, did he _drink_ her blood?"

"Blood drinking isn't uncommon. Well, it's uncommon in the circles you move in, but there are whole sub-cultures that advocate – and do – it. I can cite several that consider vampirism a way of life. Sanguinarians are a subgroup of vampires, they don't drink a lot of blood and most of them are awfully careful. In this day and age most have steady partners and get tested regularly - but I'm figuring this guy isn't one of them."

Gibbs holds up his hand. There are some things even he has a limit for before lunch. "Can someone drink so much blood?"

"Sure, there's nothing in blood that the body can't use. The biggest problem people have is squeamishness. Once you're over that, you can take anything."

"Do you know any of these San…"

"Sanguinarians? I don't know many; they're kind of a closed community. Give me a couple of hours; I think I can find someone you can talk to."

"So you think this guy thinks he's a vampire?"

"Looks that way."

"What do you think he's doing?"

"Right now, sleeping." She gives him a broad smile and receives an annoyed glare in return. "If he thinks he's a vampire, he is staying out of the sun. Vampires sleep from sun-up to sundown, usually in their coffins and on a bed of native earth."

"Why?"

"Vampires can only rest in their native habitat where they were originally buried. That's one interpretation of the legend, and it's by no means universal. Still, if he's following that tradition, he can't rest without his native soil."

He turns away, knowing it is nearing the time for his lunch appointment, but he gets only three paces before he stops and turns back, not certain he wants an answer. "You don't keep soil in your coffin, do you?"

"Come on, Gibbs; you know cleanliness is next to gothliness."


	3. The Deal

Chapter Three  
The Deal

"I want everything on Costa's last few days on my desk in an hour; then start on everyone else you can find from that party." Having entered through the rear of the bullpen, he pauses at his desk to collect his ID and weapon from his desk drawer and continues out the front.

He doesn't summon anyone to follow him.

"Where are you going, boss?" DiNozzo asks.

"Casa Dia."

"Why there?"

"I have a lunch date with a bloodhound," he calls back as he heads for the elevator.

When he's gone, DiNozzo turns his mystified attention to the others.

McGee smiles. "I would have said 'Irish Setter."

"Why, Probie?"

"Best red haired breed in the world."

xxx

Casa Dia, at noon, is a 'Reservations Only' upscale restaurant as close to the Washington Mall as one might get. When he arrives, however, he finds a reservation for two has been made in the name of 'L. Jethro Gibbs', just as he uses it on his card. He's intrigued; first 'Detective Gibbs', then the use of his name; and though he took her call he still doesn't know the identity of his dining partner.

He does, however, find her awaiting him when he is led to a secluded booth in the rear corner of the room.

"'Detective' Gibbs," she greets him with a warm smile.

"You have me at a disadvantage," he admits as he slips into the booth.

"I'll bet that doesn't happen often."

"No, it doesn't."

She extends her hand. "Gina Lollobrigida." She grins at his reaction, and shows her left hand and the ring upon it. "Yes, it's the truth, and for the past four years it's given me no end of fun."

He expects so. "So, what do you have in mind?"

"Merely a pleasant lunch, and the opportunity for you to hear me out before making a decision," she turns a menu toward him. "Eat up; it's on my paper's expense so the sky's the limit." He doesn't open the folder. "All right, I like a man who knows what he wants."

"'Detective' Gibbs?" Everyone around them had been shouting his real identity.

"I did it purposely, both to make my point and get your attention."

"You did that."

"I want to offer you a mutually beneficial deal. I only ask that you hear me out and consider my offer."

"And if I decide my answer is 'no'?"

"Then we go our separate ways, no hard feelings," she smiles, "and you pick up the tab."

"Fair enough." He had been prepared to do so anyway, and now he's even more intrigued.

x

"I'm new in Washington for the past month and determined to make a name for myself. That's the way it is in this town, you make a name quickly or you're relegated to interviewing Junior Senators on their Farm Bills." Gibbs nods, knowing the story well. "I've reviewed the news stories about NCIS over the past few years and I have a proposal."

"I'm listening."

"Your Agency has a good track record but is generally ignored by the public. You come under the umbrella of 'Federal Agencies' because I think some of my journalistic cousins can't spell NCIS. This is a push, push, push business; the days of Edward R. Murrow are long gone. People don't wait for the morning news, the story has to be on the air five minutes after it happened, with whatever information is available, can be deduced or filled in, right now on the scene or it's old news. Newspapers have a disadvantage over radio and television, but we have an advantage as well. Our news is in print. Once there it's there to stay. We still have to make our deadlines, which I can tell you are utterly insane, which is why most of us phone them in on the drive back to the office. You saw the news this morning; my colleagues don't have any more that can go to press than the others did." She leans in closer, sure she has his attention.

"I want to do things differently, I want to get back to the old ways of doing things, where a story is hunted down, researched, checked and checked again for accuracy, then the public gets the whole story, complete and to the point."

"Commendable. What has this to do with me?"

"Very simple. A partnership. You give me first rights to current cases and the opportunity to present the full picture once the case is settled, and I promise not to screw you – figuratively speaking, of course."

x

He keeps his best stone face. "A partnership."

"How many people got the story even half right this morning? I'm willing to bet none of them. Now, I won't reveal everything I know on the first pass, you can even censor what you think is too much news for an ongoing investigation, provided that when the story is fit for the public I get all the details, to fit into my allotted space as I can. I'll get everyone's names and positions right, give NCIS a positive spin that gets you out from under the 'Federal Agency' umbrella. You get the respect you and your teams deserve and I become known as the woman who can deliver the whole, true story."

"How many others have you made this offer to?"

"CID, OSI, CIA and MPDC."

"How many have taken you up on it?"

She smiles, tasting victory. "If you do, I'll keep my perfect record."

This is something Shepherd must decide, but, "You'll have my answer by this evening."

"Great," she reaches for the menus. "Then let's eat, you can tell me about the murder and I'll fax my first draft to you by three o'clock this afternoon."

Gibbs considers; the story is already out, warped though it might be. He has only to decide how much truth he wants to put into its place. It will help his conversation with Shepherd if he can put a sample of their agreement into her hands.

xxx

Captain John Parker, Commanding Officer of Norfolk Station, receives Gibbs, DiNozzo and David into his office. The last times they had met had been during the murders of sequestered Scientists in Bunker One, followed by the murders of Commander John Megalo and Petty Officer William Clarke. He knows that NCIS has names for each of these cases, his references to these incidents are considerably earthier.

He had been in Europe when the murders Captain Al Morrison and his wife Nicola had occurred. Morrison had been the Project Director on the PDC Mark 9 experimental device. By the time the ordeal was over three others were also dead; a respected man had been arrested for murder and conspiracy, the Project itself was in a shambles, all at the hands of a mysterious Assassin.

He also knows that the woman before him had nearly lost her own life trying to bring in that assassin.

Then, months later, someone had assassinated the head of the Disbursement Division and a Petty Officer. The chaos that ensued will take weeks to resolve.

He would be so happy never to see this MCR team again.

x

"What can you tell us about Costa, Captain?"

"I can tell you she was granted an Overnight Pass for last evening. We're on Alert Level Orange but we're not on lockdown. Our people know that not only are they on their own recognizance but if I find things aren't going well I'll restrict everyone if I feel I have to. That includes Chanukah and Christmas; so I've made sure there's a lot of peer pressure to keep out of trouble."

"Did Costa leave the Station with anyone else?"

"I wouldn't know. She signed out alone, other sign-outs were eleven minutes before and twenty nine minutes after." He hands Gibbs a file folder that contains everything he knows or can be reasonably expected to have answers to; Gibbs can read it as well as he can and save considerable time. "She shared a berth in BEQ; Lt. Blair can give you directions."

Gibbs' first plan had been the Bachelors' Enlisted Quarters; that is where he's sure he'll get the most useful answers.

xxx

Personnel in Military Installations are quartered by rank. Usually the lower you are in the pecking order, the more people you spend your time with. In general women, being less populous than men, make out slightly better in this area. A male Seaman Apprentice might have as many as three other 'roomies', depending upon the base or ship. In this case, Costa shared her quarters with one other woman.

SA Cynthia Donlay of Alexandria, Indiana is with the Navy for even less time than Costa, having come out of basic less than two months ago. Her blue uniform, to which the Navy had shifted from the summer whites in October, is crisp when she receives her visitors. She is five foot eleven and her larger build testifies to a considerable amount of time spent in the gym.

"Geen's into the vamp thing pretty heavy," she tells Gibbs, holding herself as near to full Attention as one might to a Civilian who could give orders to an Admiral. "Absolutely loved the old horror movies, especially vampires; 'Dark Shadows', 'Moonlight', 'Forever Knight', 'Blood Ties', 'Kindred', 'Blade', everything having to do with vampires just turned her on. Halloween's definitely her thing, so when she heard from someone that there was going to be a second party last night she was thrilled. She's been looking forward to it all week, but she fraked up her costume."

"Fraked?"

Donlay essays a smile; that had been the closest she could comfortably come to salty talk with an officer, uncertain just how high a Federal Special Agent is and not taking any chances. "Yes, sir; she wanted to go as Vampirella, but got a tear in the left, er, strap. I told her to go out anyway, she could wear her Whites; no one would blink an eye. I guess I'm the one who fraked up. I hope she's not in too much trouble."

"Trouble?"

"For wearing Jumper Whites at a Costume party. I didn't think anyone would mind. We did switch to Blues already. I'm the one who talked her into it if that'll help."

It's not against regulations to wear her Whites or Blues off base; they are considered proper wear at all times, though she should have had her hair pinned up instead of down and loose as she had. When the orders came down to switch from white to blue uniforms, the Whites would have been stored away, but this isn't the issue.

It's clear to Gibbs that Donlay doesn't know what has happened to her friend. Gibbs had assumed, mistakenly, that if so many on the base had known, so would she. He's guilty of violating his own Rule Three. "Seaman Donlay, why do you think we're here?"

"She's in trouble, got caught off base in …" her words die off with the realization three Federal Agents would not be here for the equivalent of a misdemeanor.

xx

Donlay had collapsed at her writing desk and sits with her head supported in her hands. "Are you well enough to answer questions now?" Gibbs has given her a measured minute, but no more.

"Yes, sir," her voice is still breathy. She sits back and looks up at him.

He can see the color is gradually returning to her face. "You said she was interested in vampires. Do you think she might go off with someone at the party if he were playing a vampire?"

"I think it'd have helped. She's a suc– She liked vampires."

"Did she tell anyone else where she was going?"

"She may have, I don't know."

"Did she have any problems with anyone on base?"

"Not that she told me. Hardly a day goes by that someone doesn't try his luck with one of us, usually we both have stories to share. But we don't have any trouble if that's what you mean. Everyone plays by the rules; 'yes' means 'yes', 'no' means 'no' and 'maybe' means 'try your luck some other time'."

Gibbs recalls telling Ziva something similar a few months ago, during the PDC Mk 9 case. "How about the Halloween party last month? Do you know who ran it?"

"It'll be in her date book in the bureau. Yes, that one," she confirms to Ziva. The woman finds the appropriate information and logs it in her own notebook.

"Did she talk about the party?"

"Sure, she said she had a great time. She went as 'Vampirella', had a black wig and got a _lot_ of attention."

"Why?"

The question pulls Donlay up short. "You don't know 'Vampirella', do you, sir?" She is uncomfortable with the presumption; he's a senior officer yet not averse to showing ignorance. Looking past him, she catches the faintly amused look in the eyes of the other male agent. "Just a sec."

She breaks away, grateful to do so, and goes to the night table closest to the right bed, opens the drawer, searches for a few moments through an envelope and returns with a 3 x 5 color photo. It is of Gina Costa, long black wig on her head, drink in her hand and a most captivating red costume clearly adhered to her body. The straps are probably a generous three inches wide.

"We're going to have to borrow that for evidence," the younger man says.

"Put it away, Ms. Donlay," Gibbs says and casts a withering glare behind him. "We're done here."

xxx

Jennifer Shepherd sets the fax down on her desk, forced to wonder what the world has come to.

"All right, we'll try it," she grants, looking up at Gibbs. "It'll be good to have someone in the news on our side for a change, and she did get DiNozzo and David's names right. But everything goes through our Public Relations Office before release and I sign off on the final article."

"Of course, Director." His tone is much too compliant.

"Damn it, Jethro, there's more at stake here than the news."

"I know that."

She gives him her most effectual, and ineffective, glare. "Do you know you are the most aggravating man I know?"

"Other than Rawlings from State?" They'd had enough of the officious man in the incident with Scotland and the winged women.

"Yes, and do you know why?"

"You can't argue with someone who agrees with you."

She thrusts the paper up at him. "Get out of here and let me get back to work."

xxx

It's after 1500 when Tim McGee, on a long delayed break, pulls the cell phone out of his pocket as he walks down the hall to the elevator. He presses a speed dial combination and listens to five rings. He's prepared to leave a message when a woman's voice breaks into the sixth. /Hello?/

"Shav, it's me."

Her voice transmutes from businesslike to delighted. /Hi!/

"I just wanted to say 'hi'. Where are you?"

/Aren't you the detective?/

"The Rectory?"

/No, actually I'm on the base. Director Shepherd wanted to talk about some personnel issues. When I got done, I decided to go for a walk./

The elevator door opens, he's glad no one is aboard. "Why didn't you come down to see me?"

/I didn't want to disturb you. You were busy./

"So where are you now? I can come get you, drive you back to the Rectory when you're done." Actually he is only focused on seeing her, nothing else.

/Timmy,/ she sounds faintly amused, /I didn't walk here./

"Oh, yeah, right."

/Has Agent Gibbs been hitting you again?/

"Not yet. Where are you?" The doors close before him.

/I'm over at the NEX./

"What are you doing there?" he asks, pressing the down button.

/What else does one do at a PX? I'm pixing./

He's glad the elevator doors haven't opened yet so no one can see his pained expression. "That's two down. One more strike and you're going over my knee."

/You keep promising./ She breaks the connection before he can reply.

They both know they can tease about the issue equally well; she knows he'd rather gnaw his hand down to the wrist than raise it to her.

xx

A brisk walk through the Navy Yard helps to clear his head of most of the stresses of this case. He's especially happy when he approaches the Exchange to see Siobhan O'Mallory awaiting him at the corner of the building, a paper shopping bag at her feet. She's wearing a long white coat that obscures the accoutrements of her profession, so when he reaches her he takes her in his arms for a thorough kiss.

It's about a quarter minute before she makes an effort to push him away. "A chuisle," she says with a smile, her breath slightly shaky, "you know I don't like you doing that in public."

But she hadn't resisted. "When you're wearing your collar out in the open. With that coat closed, you're fair game."

Her smile falters, she doesn't meet his eyes. "Is that what I am to you now, Timmy; a game?" her soft voice is sad.

"I – I didn't mean it that way."

She pulls away, takes a step back. "You make it sound like you're a hunter, and I'm the catch of the day,"

"God, Shav, I'm sorry, that came out all wrong."

"It's just," she says with deeper sadness, "that I really thought we have something special."

"Shav, wait, please," he reaches out to take her before she can turn away, draws her into his arms. She doesn't fight him, allowing herself to be taken, putting her head upon his chest. "I'm so sorry," he strokes her hair, "I didn't mean for it to come out like that. I don't think this is a game; I really and truly love you. I'd do anything for you. Please don't be sad. I'm sorry."

"Timmy?"

"Yes?"

She looks up, smiling wickedly. "Hunters don't apologize to their prey." She flicks her finger against the tip of his nose and slips out of his grip, grinning.

"You got me again."

"Timmy, you are so much fun because you _eeep_!" she's yanked into his grip again and his lips silence her loving gloat. This time it's much longer before they part, but still he holds her. "Timmy," she says breathily, "you keep this up and I won't be responsible."

"Neither will I," he admits.

"I think it's best that one of us is." But even as she pushes gently, he sees what she would hide behind her emerald eyes.

"You don't want to be."

"No," she whispers, looking away, "I _have_ to be."

x

He senses there's more to her mercurial mood and has little doubt as to why. They hadn't spoken of it yet, but each recognizes it nears like a swelling storm. He doesn't want to mention it, to do so will accomplish nothing but open hurts. "Shav?"

"Yes?"

"Did you know Charlie Morley's trial is on?" He'd known; NCIS is scheduled to testify at various hours in the next days.

All the joy in her falls away. "I know." Though her voice is empty, her normally melodious brogue is thick. She turns from him, looking down the street so she doesn't have to meet his eyes. "The D.A.'s office has been in touch several times. I'm subpoenaed to testify tomorrow."

"What are you thinking of?" he ultimately asks to break the smothering silence, knowing this weighs heavily upon her.

"Nothing. I'm not thinking about it."

"Shav –"

She turns back. "Timmy, I'm not _thinking_ about it – or him – or Tina or the others. I'm ordered to testify, and I will, but that doesn't mean I have to feel."

x

He'd take a step closer, try to take her in his arms, but he can see in her eyes that she won't let him.

"We're taught to hate the sin and love the sinner. I've taught it, I have to live it. He killed people I love. Not loved, love, because they are as real now as when I could see them. But –" her carefully held control cracks, he starts to her but she raises her hand, but her voice warbles as she tries to keep it under fragile control.

"I've struggled for months not to grow to hate someone I'd trusted. I've counseled family and friends who were as broken-hearted as I was… but now that the time has come I can only pray for the strength to get through this. I've prayed this trial will provide closure but I fear it will only open more wounds." She wipes her eyes dry, refusing to give in to tears. They're in public, she can't – she will not – cry in public.

"I've begged God for the strength not to hate and still there's a black and angry cancer in my heart," she says, trying to hold back anger now as much as misery. "I'll go in there tomorrow and answer questions, but I'm going to leave my heart in the hallway."

"I could go with you," he offers, hoping the case he's dealing with will make it possible.

"No! Don't you dare! Timmy, you are 'mo chuisle mo chroi', pulse of my heart. If you're in there I won't be able to _not_ feel. Just, please, stay _away_. After it's over I'm going to need you; I won't be able to deal with you before. Please."

This time she doesn't stop him from hugging her, but it is many long moments before she's able to raise her own arms.

xxx

DiNozzo, passing Gibbs' desk, picks up the intercom line.

/Gibbs'll smack you for sitting at his desk, Tony./

"I'm not sit – What's up, Abby?"

/I've got someone who'll talk to him. Adam Bradley is the head of one of the local Sanguinarian groups, he'll meet him at 5:30 at his home./

"You sure give a lot of notice."

/Sorry, blame the V.V.V./

"What's that?"

He can almost hear her sly grin. /Vorld Vampire Veb./

He shakes his head, knowing better than to continue when she's in this mood. "Five thirty?" he looks out the window at the darkening city. "That's barely after sundown."

/Not everyone who likes to bite stays out of the sun, Tony. Look at me./ She hangs up before he can reply, leaving him only able to protest to the others.

"A Goth I like. Even a Witch I could get used to – kind of _not_! – but a Bloodsucker as informant, Gibbs is going off the deep …" the expressions on the faces of his colleagues stop him, "he's standing right behind me, isn't he?" The sharp slap to the back of his head gives him his answer. "Sorry, Boss," he turns around but stands his ground, "but you've gotta admit this is going completely off the wall."

"Whatever works, DiNozzo," he admonishes as he continues on to his desk; "whatever works."

x

DiNozzo passes on the message and looks at his watch, it is 1652. "So we're gonna meet Count Dracula?"

"You're not." Finished gathering his shield and weapon, Gibbs heads for the elevator, "I'm bringing Abby to translate."

"Boss?" It's not unknown for Gibbs to embark upon an interview alone, though no one ever feels it's a good idea.

"Ziva, go back over the people at that party, the one out of twelve that stayed. Find out if _any_ of them have ties to these … vampiri. McGee, DiNozzo, go through Missing Persons, dead Jane Does, anything remotely similar to this guy's M.O. This isn't the first time he's done this."

"Boss?"

"Blood's an acquired taste, no matter how bloodthirsty someone is. Could you drink a couple pints in one sitting?"

"I don't even like my hamburger rare. But Boss, interviewing a _Vampire_?"

Gibbs comes back until he is nearly nose-to-nose with the younger man. "I'm not going there to grill Count Dracula; I'm going to talk to Adam Bradley. I don't need anyone who's going to put his back up one minute into it."

"Yes, boss."


	4. Interview with the Vampire

Chapter Four  
Interview with the Vampire

The ranch home behind a corral inspired insert wooden fence that protects a large manicured lawn that Gibbs and Sciuto pull up to is so different from the image they had in their minds that they're not entirely certain they don't have the wrong address. Though night has fallen the scene is so normal, so conservative, that Gibbs doesn't believe this was the home of a reputed vampire leader. He mentally checks himself; this is just the type of conclusion that had made him leave DiNozzo behind.

Gibbs carries a manila folder in his hand as he leads the way to the front door. In response to the knock a man answers. He's tall with sandy brown hair and looks to be about thirty five years old. His white shirt and brown slacks seem just out of the press, and in every respect he appears disarmingly normal.

"Enter freely, and of your own will."

Abby's eyes widen, "Dracula said that to Harker, and everyone knows how that turned out."

"I use it just to see where I stand with people," he extends his hand to Gibbs. "Adam Bradley." Gibbs in turn introduces Abby. "I expected to have to confront some doubtful or antagonistic Federal Agents." he allows his relief to carry in his tone.

"NCIS is a _very_ eclectic group," Abby assures him, her black leather bustier over frilly Victorian white blouse and leather miniskirt emboldened with silver chains promising vast understatement.

x

The living room is about as normal as any Good Housekeeping spread could depict; couch at the left flanked by two easy chairs, entertainment center before them in front of the bay window, a door beyond the couch and chairs, a swinging door to their left indicating the kitchen.

"I've heard of you," Bradley tells Abby.

"Really?" She expects it's going to be Goth related.

"Yes; 'Deducing drop size and velocity from circular blood stains'."

She's delighted. "I didn't think anyone else read that." Chip Stirling had, but she hopes this encounter will be more pleasant.

"I did," a woman with exceptionally long black hair says as she enters through the left swinging door, carrying a silver tray. She's wearing a white blouse and tan skirt and puts the tray containing a large silver pitcher and four glasses onto the coffee table near the couch, then turns to greet Abby. "I'm honored to meet you."

"My wife Barbara; she teaches Criminology and Forensic Science at VSU."

"_Really_! We have _got_ to talk." Abby catches Gibbs' look, realizing that now is not the best time to talk shop, but very soon…. She's thrilled to be in the field; she's been in crime scenes, but this is different - and Gibbs has never invited her before.

x

"Won't you have a seat?" Adam offers, indicating the couch, thereby placing them closer to the coffee table. Bradley takes the easy chair which is angled toward the far end of the couch. Gibbs notes from the impressions on the carpet that this is a recent innovation; normally everything faces toward the entertainment center across the room.

"I've made some snacks," Barbara offers as she heads back to the kitchen.

"Would you like some help?"

"Oh, no, dear; it'll just be a second. Sit down, get comfortable. I have a feeling this is going to be an interesting evening." She goes through the swinging door and returns even before the others are seated, this time carrying a larger silver tray. "I made us some finger sandwiches," she sets it down next to the other tray.

The 'finger sandwiches' are literally that; human fingers, or at least they are so at first glance. The thinly rolled digits are topped at one end with olive or carrot slices to suggest nails; some fingers have plastic jeweled rings at the other end, holding the fingers together. Abby giggles and covers her mouth quickly as Barbara pours out red liquid from the pitcher. "Kool-Aid actually," she answers Gibbs' questioning look.

"Morticia's sense of humor is a bit on the cemetery side," Adam quips as Abby bites into a sandwich, surprised to hear the interior crunch between her teeth. She looks apprehensively at the remainder of the sandwich and finds a strip of celery as the accent.

"Morticia?" Gibbs asks.

"My alter ego. We're not known openly, even at gatherings."

Abby can see where the addition of a black sheath dress would complete a very convincing aspect.

"So," Adam says as he and his wife take the seats on either end of the couch, "Asteroth tells me you have some questions about Sanguinarians."

Gibbs quiet tones as he explains the problem cast a depressing pall over the initial social atmosphere. The large, full color photos he pulls from the folder on the coffee table dispel it.

x

"This is not the … no Sanguinarian did this."

"You're sure." The man's conclusion had been quite definite. He does not trust definite conclusions.

"Very." Bradley sets down his drink. "Special Agent Gibbs, I was told by one of my colleagues that you needed accurate information about a murder, and it was for that reason that I decided to meet you. Whoever this person is, if the newspapers, television and radio get hold of this they will only see 'Vampire'. That kind of press can only hurt us. I'd like the chance to point you in the right direction."

Gibbs nods, not mentioning that the information is already out - it's been headline news all day. If they don't know, then he wants no distractions before he has his answers.

x

"Sanguinarians feed on blood, human blood; I make no excuses or evasions of that. But we don't do _that_!" he points to the photos spread upon the coffee table. Neither he nor his wife Barbara spend any time looking at the collection of photos, both on scene and with the woman's body on the silver autopsy table.

"Sanguinarism is a natural medical condition," Adam continues, "an actual need for blood to survive. It's often misunderstood, but we maintain ourselves within our own culture. There's a cooperative lifestyle between Sanguinarians and Swans."

"Swans?" Gibbs asks. Abby had already used the word, he wants more.

"A Swan's a voluntary donor of blood, usually identified by a color which designates one's place within the community. Crimson Swans, like Barbara and two others who donate regularly to me, contribute blood. There are others, such as Crystal Swans who donate Auric or psionic energy; but you're not looking for that. Then there are Amber Swans who donate both kinds."

"And this is voluntary?"

"Yes," Barbara answers definitely, irked by Gibbs' doubt. "We Swans take our position, and the particular honor of it, quite seriously. Within the Sanguinarian Community we're quite highly regarded. Swans are essential to our lifestyles. Donors have to be tested thoroughly before making donations. Even though Adam and I are married we still have a contract just like everybody else."

"Contract?" This pushes the limit of Gibbs' credulity.

"Yes," Adam assures them. "I have notarized contracts with all three of my Swans, and anyone who doesn't is playing the fool. It specifies, as a Donor Bill of Rights, not only that there will be no recourse to law for assault or harassment stemming from any blood work should the relationship go bad, but also who will draw the blood, how, how much and when – and when it shall not be done. Barbara draws her own, the others draw their own as well or Barbara will assist."

"No biting?"

"We consider that crude," Barbara's tone is sharp.

"I don't know anyone who bites. It's not sanitary, it hurts, is rarely done right and offers little or no control."

x

"Most Sanguinarians will take blood from an open cut," Barbara assures them. "There are ways of doing so that don't hurt. You can drink, suck gently, but licking tends to sting and interferes with clotting."

"I don't even suck from Barbara's flesh except on special occasions."

Gibbs doesn't feel the need to ask what would constitute a 'special occasion', the man's tone and his wife's blush convey enough.

"I use a syringe," Barbara tells them, trying to cover her momentary embarrassment, the look she gives her husband needing no interpretation, "and always in a spot that isn't readily visible. Sometimes I'll assist Ta – the others. Also, there are regular required checkups: STD, Hepatitis A through G, HIV/AIDS and CBC. I go every two months and I inspect the reports of the others just as regularly before I'll risk Adam's health."

"Is there any sex?" Abby asks, deeply interested.

"There can be," Barbara admits, "but it doesn't _have_ to be. Adam and I do it, of course; others might, usually in a monogamous relationship, but that's no business of anyone but themselves. He _knows_ better than to try it with either of his other Swans," she assures them all in a voice heavily laced with doom.

x

"How much blood are we talking about?" Gibbs asks. Obviously far less than the drained corpse they already have in Ducky's cooler, or is it just mainstream Sanguinarians who have this restraint?

"Usually no more than a couple of teaspoons," Adam says, "less than you use up when you go to your Doctor for a checkup."

"But you say you know no one who bites? How many do you know?"

He smiles. "There are more of us than I suspect you'd like to know."

"And they _all_ follow the same rules?" he allows his voice to carry his doubt.

For the first time Adam's smile falters, and reluctance clouds his expression. "Not exactly; no," he finally grants.

"As with everything," Barbara says, "there are branches."

"Think of it," Adam continues, "as three main branches. There are the Sanguinarians such as myself, there are Psychic recipients who feed off the Auric or Psionic energy of another, and then you have the Vampires." Neither can miss the distinction implicit in his tone.

"If we're the fringe of the Goth lifestyle," Barbara tells them, "Vampires are the fringe of us."

Gibbs looks at the pair and their Good Housekeeping living room. "Goth?" To this point he thought he'd known Goth.

"Oh, we have Goth rooms." Barbara assures them. "This is for guests and neighbors who never get to see the good stuff. Would you like to see?"

"We'd _love _to," Abby says before Gibbs has a chance to answer, but he doesn't cut her off. It's an excellent opportunity to get into the mind of a killer, even if indirectly.

x

The den they're led into is as far removed from the living room as Gibbs supposes is possible while still being part of the same house. It's as black as one may hope to find anywhere in Abby's universe and decorated so stunningly that he decides he's met the first stable people who can out-Abby Abby.

The Forensic Scientist is in her glory. "This is so _incredible_! I wish I were able to do my place like this."

"I've been to your place, Abby," Gibbs reminds her.

"I have an apartment, not a house of my own. There are limits." She turns to Barbara. "Do you have coffins?"

"Better," Barbara crooks her finger enticingly.

Abby follows her across the hallway and actually lets out a squeal of delight and calls back through the open door. "They've got the MUNSTERS' bedroom!"

Gibbs is unimpressed.

"When I attend gatherings," Adam tells him, "I do so dressed as you might expect. Halloween is the one night of the year I can get dressed up and go out in public and have no one bat an eye, if you'll pardon the pun, because I fit right in."

"I'm known as 'Morticia'," Barbara says as she and Abby return to the den, "so you might imagine my costume."

"I was Elvira last month." Abby announces.

"You're not in costume now," Gibbs has already noted the paleness of Adam's face and tries to get the interview back on track. "Is this a condition of Sanguinarism?"

"No, this is a condition of Accounting," Bradley replies with a smile. The answer is just unexpected enough to give Gibbs pause. "I'm an Accountant, and since I'm Operations Manager, I'm usually first in and last out. In the winter, except for weekends, I don't even see the sun; I'm there before dawn and don't get out until dark. What you see is courtesy of an indoor lifestyle."

x

"You started to tell us about Vampires."

"Oh, yes. Well, Vampires aren't like Sanguinarians, at least those I know aren't. We don't really socialize with them that much. Our needs are similar but our philosophies aren't. Vampires, as I said earlier, are on the fringe.

"Vampires bite. They're Goth 24/7, they'll even go so far as to have their teeth capped, there are cosmetic dentists who specialize in that. They'll either make the traditional long canines as dentures or removable caps or go all the way and actually bond the fangs right to the teeth.

"Sanguiniarians are particularly cautious of their Swans, vampires are … not so strict. If what we do can be equated to 'safe sex', the vampires are more daring, if you take my meaning."

"But they have limits," Barbara interjects, not wanting the Agents to get the wrong idea.

"Oh, yes, there are rules they have to follow just as we do. You have donors, you watch out for their health, you treat them with respect, you never use another vampire's donor, everything has to be between _consenting_ adults. Most of them use formal contracts just as we do. The biggest rules are you don't take from the unwilling, you don't take from the elderly or a child – and you do _not kill_!"

"We have reason to believe Seaman Costa had an 'affinity' for vampires," Gibbs tells them.

"That would be no excuse. If she wasn't a recognized donor – and they have almost as many ways to make themselves known to one another as Freemasons do – an off-the-street newbie would be introduced and indoctrinated into the program. She wouldn't be taken into some bedroom." He looks as though he'd stop there, if he could.

"Unfortunately, that being said, there are some people out there, as much as we hate to think about it, that simply can't be trusted to play by the rules."

"If I take your meaning, am I looking for a Vampire Rapist?"

Adam's eyes are haunted, "I think you are."

x

"Know of any?"

"No. And believe me, Special Agent Gibbs, if I knew of one I'd give him over to you right now. This man hurts us all. The public isn't going to be as open minded as you and your Agents are. They're going to hear 'Vampire Rapist'; or worse, 'Vampire Killer' and come after all of us with sharpened stakes. My life is basically behind closed doors, as you've seen, but some of our friends aren't as secretive or they've gradually been 'outed'. I don't need the complications this story will bring, and they certainly do not.

"I'll make inquiries among the Sanguinarians, the Aurics and the Vampires, and I'll get back to you the minute I hear anything."

Having studied Adam's face and body language during the entire conversation, Gibbs can say with certainty "I believe you."


	5. Starbase 86

Chapter Five  
Starbase 86

Abby glances out the high windows of her lab at the deep night and decides she's too tired and tense from the long day to remain any longer, and too keyed up to go to sleep. It's only 7:30, an hour since returning from the Bradley home, and though she'd enjoyed her very first opportunity to play 'Field Agent', at least a sanctioned one - the incident with Dawn Caldwell doesn't count - she's winding down but not yet ready to go home.

She'd call Sammy if she knew her home number, and though she could easily find it she decides 'I know someone who probably needs a break almost as much as I do.' Tim had mentioned what's on Siobhan O'Mallory's plate for tomorrow, and knows that while she hates courtrooms, she suspects her friend likes them just as much.

She opens her computer's 'Contact List' and uses it to direct a number into the three sided phone on her workstation. She has to endure only seven rings before a woman's voice answers.

/Saint Mary's Church, Mother O'Mallory./

"Hi, it's Abby, what'cha doin'?" Though her mood is one of high anticipation, the voice that comes back is not.

/Just finishing up on some paperwork for the Diocese. What may I do for you?/

"No, no, it's what _I_ can do for _you_!" She tries to make it sound juicy. "How long has it been since you've had a 'Girl's Night Out'?" The answer is so long in coming she is about to call 'hello?'

/Nine, ten years./

"Whoa, that is _way_ too long."

/Abby, I'm not really the 'Girls' Night Out' kind of–/

"Listen, put on your wildest outfit and meet me in your parking lot in half an hour."

/Abby, I'm a parish priest; I don't _have_ a wild outfit./

"It's okay, I'll bring something,"

/Oh _No_!/ Abby nearly laughs to imagine the look of dread on the woman's face. /I'll come up with something; anything to keep from looking like 'Elvira'! Where do you plan to go?/ There's a flood of apprehension in her tone. Abby remembers her saying once that she'd never been afraid of anyone, until she'd gotten acquainted with the 'gang from Enkiss'. She wonders where McGee falls on that list.

"Starbase 86."

Very long pause. /I've never heard of it,/ the woman says uncertainly.

"I'll bet you haven't. Thirty minutes, your parking lot." She breaks the connection before her disconcerted friend can say another word. "Tonight is gonna _rock_!"

xxx

When Abby parks the Forenschick, her red 1931 Ford Coupe hot rod, across the street from the club, she turns to the woman beside her. Siobhan, true to her word, had settled on a green blouse and skirt combination under a brown leather jacket. The priest had known her wardrobe would never approach her outrageous friend's; she'd settled for 'presentable' instead.

Abby wears a black leather miniskirt under a black shirt so adorned with sequins she resembles a galaxy. "Here," she pulls a pendant from her pocket and before her friend can protest slips it over her head, "you'll fit in better."

"Fit _in_? What on Earth is this?" She holds the two inch wide pendant into the light of the street lamp beside the car and wonders again what the madwoman beside her has gotten her into. The metal emblem is a round gold disk coupled with a silver three dimensional triangle set at an angle to the lower right. A clear gem marks the apex of the triangle in the circle's center. She recognizes the emblem, though she hasn't seen its like in nearly twenty years. "Abby–"

"You'll see. You look perfect." Abby evades any response by getting out of the Forenschick, leaving Siobhan little choice but to follow her into the night.

x

If bright lights, red rope stanchions and long queues to bouncer-guarded doors are indications of a night club's success, then 'Starbase 86' is not the hottest spot in town. In the dark it could easily be missed. The only indication of this club's unique identity is a red neon sign that illuminates a plain brown door and the two foot high gold oval and silver chevron 'Next Generation' emblem painted on it.

Once they step inside, however, it's clear that the understated motif stops at the street. In fact, it's enough of a change, and not just from the bright lighting, to leave Siobhan standing upon the single step, gaping at the spectacle within. A bar runs the length of the right wall, but it's an instantly recognizable bar, even to the diamond shaped niches in the back wall stocked with horizontal bottles of every conceivable, and a few inconceivable, styles. A collection of small white topped circular tables barely large enough for two dot a black floor like stars in the heavens.

Abby, on the black floor, turns to look up at her friend, pleased by the trap so well sprung. "It's a mix of 'Galaxina's Pub' meets the 'Mos Eisley Cantina' meets 'Quark's' from DS9' with a touch of 'K-7' and 'Ten-Forward' thrown in."

"You don't say," Siobhan breathes as she steps down onto the space black floor dotted with the illusion of distant stars. From several speakers in the starlit heavens, in a stroke of cosmic humor, the Star Wars 'Cantina Band theme' begins to play.

While the patrons are an odd and eclectic mix, the staff is more stunning. Siobhan spots a Classic-Trek blue miniskirt uniformed Lieutenant and a bouffant haired, lingerie clad FemBot from Austin Powers. A fetching slave Princess Leia assists a customer at one table while an evolved Chimpanzee takes orders on one of Starfleet's tricorders in the far corner. Quark, or a reasonable facsimile, tends bar beside a ceremonially robed Vulcan.

x

As Abby leads the somewhat stunned priest to a table near the bar, the blue uniformed Lieutenant approaches. "Evening, Dax," she greets Abby cordially as they sit down, Abby's back to the bar.

"Hi, Helen," Abby looks to Siobhan, "that's as in 'Helen Noel'." As a life-long Trekker, Siobhan can see the choice in the woman's case; she strongly resembles the actress from 'Dagger of the Mind'. "Everyone here gets tagged with a nickname. It's added to your profile so pretty soon they know what you want and how you take it. Let's see," she looks the priest over appraisingly, "I'm tempted to go with 'Red Sonja' but it breaks the illusion."

"Not a chance!" Siobhan denies firmly before the madwoman can go with the inspiration. "The day I put on four chain mail triangles..."

Abby grins. "Don't worry, I wouldn't do that to you."

"Thank you."

"Father Donaldson walks in here, he'll have a coronary."

"He's not the only one."

"Besides, she's Vulcan," Helen contends, not understanding the depth of the interchange but noting the IDIC. "Let me think on this."

"How about T'Racy?" Abby suggests.

"Perfect. Consistent yet suggestive."

"Don't I get a say in this?" Siobhan protests.

"Nope," Abby denies happily, then looks up at 'Helen'. "We'll have two PGGB's, neat."

"Coming right up."

When Helen steps over to the bar, Siobhan leans closer as the Cantina band shifts into the background instrumental for the 'Han Solo negotiation scene'. "All right," she says, seeing the wisdom in giving in, "Tracy it is."

"Not Tracy, T_'Racy_," Abby relishes every syllable. "As to how racy, only McGee knows for sure."

She sits back. "I'd like to keep it that way, if you don't mind."

"Your raunchy secrets are safe with me."

"Thank you." She spends a few moments taking in the stunning décor. She recognizes photos of scenes from dozens of Sci-Fi movies and tries to remember the origin of one of the more outré servers until Abby pulls her attention back.

"So what are they?"

"Hm? What are what?"

"Your raunchy McGee secrets?"

The priest laughs. "It'll really be a cold day in Hell when I tell you that."

"I can wait."

x

"How did you ever find this place?" Siobhan asks, determined to get Abby off the topic.

"On the web. About a year ago two guys, both huge Sci-Fi fans, split a $9 million Lotto, quit their 9 – 5 rat-races and became a Ferengi and a Vulcan." O'Mallory looks past her to the bar where the two costumed men serve drinks and food.

"Here's to living your dream." She considers her friend minutely. "You know, every time I think of you and your famous clubs, I picture dark rooms with black and scarlet drapes, black wooden furniture, thumping punk music making the room vibrate and everyone in leather and chains."

"Dungeons are a hoot; but sometimes I like a change of pace. And I figured I'd introduce you to this first. Baby steps. I'll have you in leather and chains some other night."

"Remember that cold day in Hell?"

"Give me time; I can be very persuasive."

"I think I'll stick to this." She looks around again. "This I could relate to."

x

When Helen returns with four tall glasses, she sets down two before them. These are six inches tall, an inch wide and are filled with a strange concoction, the lower half amber, the upper half bright green.

Siobhan eyes it suspiciously but doesn't reach for it. "What is this?"

"That, my friend," Abby answers with relish, picking up her own thin glass, "is a PGGB, a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster."

She frowns, searching her memory. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"Douglas Adams, 'Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy'. At $14, the menu says it's like having your brains bashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped around a gold brick."

"_Fourteen_ Dollars?" she looks at the glass before her, appalled.

"Few people come back for seconds. One of these will have you crawling home. Drink up."

x

She picks up the glass, praying Abby is exaggerating but not very confident. She takes some of the bright green liquid and convulses in pain.

Fire sears her mouth and throat, blasts back up to clear her nostrils as her eyes flow with tears. She clamps one hand over her burning mouth, clutches her throat with the other. "Holy GOD!" she gasps, choking. "_WATER_!"

Helen, having stood by in expectation of this reaction, hands her the other glass from her tray. Siobhan snatches it from the woman and drains half in a single gulp. "Sweet _Jesus_, I haven't tasted worse than my Grandpa Sean's brew until now!" She pulls napkins from the dispenser on the foot wide table and wipes her tearing eyes.

"You're lucky, that's just the green half. The amber's a bit on the spicy side."

Siobhan, able to breathe now, gapes at her and pushes the glass as far toward Abby as she can on the small white table. "I'll stick to ice water."

As you like," Abby picks up her own glass and takes a respectable swallow that clears most of the green. When she puts the glass down far more gently than her friend had, she reaches for a napkin to dab her own eyes.

"Your hairline's turning white."

"I can drink half of NCIS under the table and still drive home. Super metabolism. I haven't been picked up yet."

As a large glass of ice water is set down before her, Siobhan moves the devil brew a half inch closer yet to Abby. "Sláinte mhath."

"Thanks. And 'cheers' to you too."

x

They sit in companionable silence for a moment, Abby enjoying her drink while Siobhan takes in the impressive décor, then she says, "You know, Abby, booby traps aside, I like you."

"Hmmm?"

Siobhan looks closely at her, scrutinizing her, not quite certain her friend isn't already a little drunk from that one gulp, despite her claim to exceptional metabolism. "You're one of the few people, other than Timmy, who treats me like a regular woman. You don't get all prim and proper whenever I'm around."

Abby laughs, looking slightly bleary. She's already well into the amber half of her drink, while Siobhan's sits barely touched in front of her. "I haven't been 'prim and proper' since grade school, and not even for long then."

"I mean it," Siobhan insists. "For example, about a month ago I was at this restaurant with a couple from St. Mary's. There were three women in the booth behind me, their conversation almost straight out of an episode of 'Sex and the City'. I was actually rather enjoying what I overheard, info no end on French ticklers and other devices versus the real thing. Well, the check came, we got up and when I turned around to leave the two women facing me went dead white. When we passed, the one with her back to me found all their blood in her own face."

"I'd have told them about this pleaser," Abby assures her, "the one with–"

"I know you would," Siobhan cuts in quickly before the woman gets into too much detail, "and that's my point. You have no idea how nice it is to have someone who treats me as an average woman, flaws and all."

"Don't worry," Abby raises what little is left of the drink in salute, "I'll never treat you with any respect." She takes a respectable sip and sets it down, dabbing her eyes

"Thanks." She has no doubt about Abby's discretion, but it is nice to have someone, like Timmy, with whom she can let her hair down – or figuratively take her collar off. "So, what news of Enkiss?"

x

Abby shakes her head and reaches for the Gargle Blaster again. Between sips, now deep into the amber, she tells the woman about Gina Costa's murder, alerting her that she may be called to render aid to the family; about the hunt, the Sanguinarians and the vampires, but concludes with, "NCIS is work. This is 'Girl's Night Out', no work."

"I have to confess–"

"Oh oh, confession _from_ a priest; this could get heavy."

"I've never been one for 'Girl's Night Out'."

"Never?" Abby challenges, knowing better. She knows the redhead's history is not as sedate as her job would have people believe.

"Well, not since I grew up."

"_Grew up_. Now you sound like a School Marm from the 18th Century. Hel_lo_, this is the 21st Century, Women's Lib and all that."

"Women's Lib may have helped get me where I am today, but standards of behavior help _keep _me here."

"Sometimes I wonder if I could," Abby admits. It doesn't sound like a fun life, living up to the public's expectations as well as the Church's.

"A Goth Priest – or maybe in your case a Goth Nun; that'd be something." 'Something scary,' she concludes privately.

"You know my Nuns, the ones I bowl with. I'm still working on them."

"And they on you." She wonders who'll win out in the end.

"You and they're a lot alike. Each of you try to set high moral standards for me."

"It's my job to set moral standards for people."

"I know." She picks up her glass. "This is my counter-attack." She finishes the amber portion in one draught.

x

"So," Abby says as she raps down the glass, "tell me."

"Tell you what?" Despite her claims, Abby's eyes are definitely looking bleary and Siobhan wonders if she should pull her own glass back out of reach. To do so would offend however, she'd already given it up, and with so small a table 'out of reach' is a meaningless phrase.

"You and McGee," Abby asks with a smile that crosses over to lascivious.

"What about us?"

Abby takes up the second glass, taking a swallow of the green concoction. Siobhan wonders how she can tolerate the massive jolt, to say nothing of not looking - obviously - or sounding drunk. Even with that staggering amount in her, Abby only betrays it in her eyes and 'around the edges'. Super-metabolism, indeed.

"You've been dating for over month, has he put the moves on yet?" She recalls the first time Tim had been in her apartment for the night. With very little urging from her, they'd wound up in her coffin and had gotten precious little sleep.

"The moves?" Siobhan makes her voice as bland as she can, hoping Abby will take the hint and give up.

Abby takes a gulp that clears the bright green fluid and partway down into the amber, her restraint disappearing with the drink. "Come _on_, Siobhan, please don't play games."

"I'm not playing with you, Abby," she tells her flatly. "But you're asking questions I think are inappropriate, even if he _was_ dating you before the two of us got back together."

"I'm just curious."

"About what? Our sex life?"

"Yes."

"Why do you _care_?"

"Because I _miss_ him!" Abby blurts out before she can stop herself.

Into the silence that ensues between them, to cover her regret and embarrassment, she picks up her glass. "I miss him." She drains the last of it.

x

Siobhan considers the woman opposite her and recalls everything she'd learned about the interplay between Timmy and Ziva and Abby in the past 5 months. She decides that, although the woman is definitely far less sober than she'd claim, they need to reach an understanding or the same situations that had happened with Ziva might crop up again.

So, for the only time she'll ever speak of it to anyone, she decides on honesty.

"Abby," she sighs, unable to hide true regret, "Timmy and I don't _have_ a sex life."

"Huh?" The woman quite evidently tries to focus, unable to hide her surprise.

"We don't have a physical relationship," she tells her quietly.

"Why _not_?" Abby whispers just over the techno-track from the speakers above.

"Remember Dennis Whitney?" Abby nods. "He impersonated Timmy, looked and sounded exactly like him."

"I know." It had been a calamitous few days when the spy ring had kidnapped McGee and Whitney had taken his place. The plot to break the greatest secrets of the agents had nearly culminated in death for all NCIS agents throughout the world.

"He tried to rape me." Abby's mouth falls open. "You didn't know?"

"_No_!"

"For a while I thought it might have been the biggest news in Enkiss, even after the real truth came out. James Palmer saw it, and I figured…." She can say no more.

"Jimmy's the discreetiest man I know," she pauses, considering, "discredest, discretiest? Okay, so I'm drunk, what happened with Whitney?"

"He trapped me in the elevator. Tore my clothes, hurt me, it was only through God's help that I got away, _believing_ it was _Timmy_. I was hurt, more inside than out, because I believed _Timmy_ had tried to rape me. I tried to see a Psychiatrist, you know what happened _there_."

"Yes," Abby doesn't withhold her outrage. The renegade Elizabeth McFadden will do many years in prison if convicted of betraying so many trusting patients.

"I've had – I _have_ flashbacks. Sometimes I'll wake up at night from being back in that elevator, except it really _is_ Timmy hurting me! Once I dreamed I got his gun away from him and I–" She can't say it. She sees in Abby's eyes that there's no need to.

"Timmy and I, we'll be together and suddenly I'm back in that elevator and he's _hurting_ me!" She can see tears in Abby's eyes, but sympathy isn't what she had been seeking.

"Timmy's patient. He knows I'll get over it," she takes a sip of her water, admitting "someday."

x

Abby starts to reach out to take Siobhan's hand, but her eyes catch something over the woman's shoulder, in the rear left corner of the room. "Oh _Jeez_!" she exclaims as sympathy turns to aggravation.

"What?" Siobhan turns in her seat to see that someone has 'Helen Noel' backed to the wall, his lips kissing her throat. Helen gasps in seemingly passionate abandon, her hands pushing ineffectually against the man's body. His left hand reaches for her breast while his right slips under the blue microskirt. "Come _on_!" She can barely believe this behavior in the woman's workplace, or that the few patrons nearby studiously ignore the passionate embrace.

"Get a _room_, you guys," Abby mutters just over the music. A moment later, Helen gives a deep sigh and then quiets, her arm drops limply to her side. The man releases his grip on her and she sags down the wall, a stream of blood flowing from her throat to stain the shoulder of her uniform. Before anyone can move, her assailant turns and hurries to the door.

"Son of a _Bitch_!" Abby cries, leaping to her feet, her chair toppling over as the man bolts for the door.

The furious scientist is just a second too late as she charges out the door after him and the entire room seems to surge toward the motionless woman upon the floor. Siobhan snatches her glass of ice water and dashes after her mad friend.

x

In the deep dark at the sidewalk Abby leaps after the fleeing man, her flight carries her to his shoulders and the impact drives him to the curb and into a parked car. She gets her left arm about his throat and with her right fist she pounds at his head with fury-powered strength.

He twists sharply and Abby screams as she's flung about to land with a loud bang across the hood of the car, whose alarm immediately fills the air with piercing discord. Half stunned, she looks up to see the man bend over her and she shoves as hard as she can. Terror lends her strength but not enough to stop him. By the streetlight beyond the car she can see his mouth stained with red blood, his eyes bright green and filled with fury. His fangs descend toward her despite her frantic shoving.

"_Now Sanctify this water we pray you, by the power of your Holy Spirit_," a woman's voice cuts in sharply from several yards back. He turns, wincing at the words and Abby, lying upon the hood of the blaring car, sees Siobhan past him, holding the tall water glass in her left hand, her right above it and speaking as rapidly as she can, "_that those who are here cleansed from sin and born again may continue forever in the risen life of Jesus Christ our Savior!_"

Abandoning the struggling scientist, the monster advances on the priest who speaks so quickly the words almost flow together. "_To him, to you and to the Holy Spirit_ –" she backs away as he charges, his face wreathed in pain, "_be all honor and glory_, _now and forever_ _**Amen**_!" She flings the blessed water into his face.

x

The effect is astounding. With a roar the monster backs away, hands covering his face. He convulses in agony, screaming maniacally. Abby leaps off the car as Siobhan rushes in. Both women grasp his arms and struggle to force the convulsing man toward the ground. He fights their combined strength but, roaring in agony, he's slowly driven down.

He gets one foot out before him and they're shoved upward, launched backward off their feet, their screams cut short by loud impacts.

Abby sits up a moment later and a flare of pain shoots through her back where she'd hit the stone wall of the building ten feet from where she'd stood. They're alone. There's no sign of the man they'd fought.

She tugs her phone from her pocket and holds the '9' button. A moment later she hears /911, what is your emergency?/

"There's a woman in club 'Starbase 86'," she gives the address. "She's been attacked and is bleeding badly, we need an ambulance ASAP and–" she turns to her left to check on Siobhan and her heart leaps to her throat. The woman lies on her back, her head slightly propped by the metal post beside the door. Blood mats her hair and drips to the cement. "Oh God!" Abby leaps to her feet and hurries over. She searches the motionless woman's neck for a pulse.

/Caller, are you there?/

Abby brings the phone back to her ear. "10:33, Federal Agent Down! Repeat, 10:33! _Federal Agent Down_!"

She cuts the call and begins a series of speed calls while doing what she can for the motionless woman.


	6. Koshi

Chapter Six  
Koshi

When Leroy Jethro Gibbs as Deputy Special Agent-in-Charge arrives outside the night club, having been summoned from his favorite drydock, his temper is as short as his blood pressure is high. He has to navigate through five Metro Police patrol units, the private cars of five NCIS operatives, including Ducky's vintage Morgan and the Medical Examiner and Crime Scene vans to reach the three ambulances. Collectively, the revolving and strobing red, blue, yellow and white lights turn the street into an eye-searing rendition of an outdoor disco. He slams the car door closed and gets no more than five feet when he's intercepted by a uniformed Metro PD Sergeant. "Your Forensic Scientist called a 10:33 for a civilian!"

"Good to see your people are so efficient."

"By the time I called a 'slow down' we had half the District charging down here!" As they speak, one of the ambulances closes its doors and the large vehicle pulls away, sirens and lights clearing a path.

"How are my people?"

"_Your people_ are fine, but do you have any idea what carnage there could have been, or how much of this city's unattended because we have too many units here?"

"Then send them back to patrol. I'll deal with my people."

The Sergeant looks into Gibbs' stony eyes. "This isn't over."

"Ya think?"

Furious, knowing that nothing can be done in a case of Federal vs. Local, he sets to restoring order to his patrols. But let just one of these NCIS yahoos so much as _litter_ before he's gone...

x

Gibbs steps up to one of the two remaining ambulances, finding Abby Sciuto sitting on the back bumper, an EMT unwrapping a blood pressure cuff from her arm.

"I'm sorry, Gibbs, I didn't know what else to do."

"You've been trained in Emergency Situations."

She shakes her head ruefully. "Yeah, well, it didn't help that I was half-drunk at the time."

His voice, when he answers this outrageous declaration, is low but could peel the paint off the truck. She'd called an Emergency Alert for a civilian, no matter what her connection with the Agency may be, and had brought the weight of the entire MPDC down upon his head because she overreacted because she was _drunk_?

She winces at his biting reprimand, can't remember the last time he'd spoken so to her but it hurts sharply. His words gradually wind down to "and if you weren't NCIS you'd be looking for someone to bail you out!"

"Don't remind me," she mutters, unable to look up at him. She cringes again when a speeding car's brakes shriek next to the ambulance, a door flies open and slams shut, followed by running feet.

Gibbs decides to hold off on a 'wake-up call', doubting her head can take it. "What happened?"

x

Tim McGee skids to a halt at the back of the first ambulance in line and finds Ducky speaking with Siobhan O'Mallory. "You are fortunate, my dear, though you could well have a concussion and I strongly recommend you go with the EMTs. You've a lump on the back of your head a goose would be proud of."

"Shav, what _happened_?" All McGee can see as he bursts in on the scene is her disheveled red hair and equally disheveled clothing – until she draws the ice pack from her head and it's smeared with blood.

She turns to her frantic love. "I want a raise; or at least 'hazard pay'."

"She will be all right, Timothy. Sadly, the waitress was not as fortunate."

"_What_ waitress?"

x

Eventually the Agents gather about the rear of the M.E. van and, with all the MPDC units having resumed their usual patrols, the story is told completely and concisely, excluding only the personal conversation that had presaged the event.

"The victim's real name was Karen Koshi," DiNozzo reports, referring to his pad, "she's worked here under the name 'Helen Noel' since the club opened two years ago."

"She's lost a considerable volume of blood," Ducky explains. "The EMTs started her on plasma immediately. I shall be checking her condition as soon as possible."

"Make sure she pulls out of it, Duck; she's our only witness." He turns to Abby. "You say people thought she was making out with the perp?"

"That's what it looked like to me, they were all 'get a room'y."

"Until she collapsed, you saw the blood and decided you were gonna _chase_ this guy?"

"Well, it wasn't so much a decision, it was more a …" she wilts under Gibbs' glare. "Okay, so I was drunk."

"You never get drunk," Tim counters.

"Well, I was working on it. The things I needed to say you have to be drunk for."

"_What_ things?" he demands, his former worry drowning under new rage.

"Never mind, I'm sober now." They can all see that claim is premature.

"Too bad you weren't then," Gibbs retorts and turns then to the red haired woman who holds a cold pack to the back of her head. "What made you think making Holy Water would work?"

"I didn't make any Holy Water."

"But–" Abby starts to protest.

"That prayer is the public blessing of already sanctified water. The sanctification of Holy Water is esoteric, I didn't have what I needed but the common man doesn't know the ritual and your man was fooled into _believing_ I was making Holy Water. Abby'd told me about him earlier."

"It burned him like acid because he believed it would," Abby insists.

"But he _still_ had the strength to throw the two of you more than ten feet and almost open _your_ skull or fracture _your_ backbone!"

"Thank you, Gibbs," Abby says, beaming with happiness.

"Yes," Siobhan agrees, "thank you."

"_For WHAT_?"

"For _caring_ enough to be mad."

x

"McGee!"

"Yes, boss?"

"Take these two to G.W.U. Hospital. As soon as Koshi is awake you get a statement and description."

"_Gibbs_!" Abby protests; aside from a sore back, the only thing injured is her pride.

"You called a 10:33 for a civilian. There's a sergeant out there measuring your butt for his boot, and you can count on this winding up on Shepherd's desk."

"But I had–"

His glare silences her, but not Siobhan.

"I don't need a hospital; I'll be fine at the Rectory." He turns to her, his glare even harder than he'd given Abby. "You can't intimidate _me_, Agent Gibbs; I had Father Dibley in General Theological."

Gibbs' voice drops to a private tone. "You were injured during an NCIS operation. I want to be _sure_ you're not hurt."

She looks up into his blue eyes, reading more in their intensity than the words alone convey. "All right."

xxx

"Timmy?" McGee feels a hand shake his shoulder and opens sleep-crusted eyes to find himself still seated up in a padded chair in the Doctors' lounge of GWU Hospital. He picks his head up with great difficulty and the muscles in his neck protest every inch. When he can see, it's Siobhan upon whom he focuses.

"Ohh, it's good these chairs are in hospitals, not far to travel after waking up in one of them."

"Why didn't you use the couch?"

"I didn't want to fall asleep."

Her response, as she shakes her head, is as much a laugh as a sigh. "Doctor Kirkwood came to let you know Karen Koshi is out of surgery. You can talk to her in Recovery."

"How is she?"

"She lost a lot of blood, he said over a liter, but she'll recover with the transfusion, bed rest and the pills they're going to give her. I wouldn't have found out that much except," she taps the gold shield clipped to her belt. She still wears the green blouse and skirt she'd started the evening with, so the shield is in a position where one can't easily see that it reads 'Chaplain' rather than 'Special Agent'.

"How long has it been?"

She checks her watch. "It's ten to four in the morning."

Tim groans, knowing he will have no chance for real sleep. "What have you been doing all this time?"

"Abby and I were checked out, but beyond bumps and bruises we're fine. She went home about three hours ago, she'll have a lot to do in the lab in the morning, she says, though I suspect she'll be nursing a wicked hangover while she does it. I'm going to meet her at St. Mary's in the morning, I have something I want to give her. Then, when she left, I went to the Chaplain's office, got a list of Episcopalian patients and set out to do some good."

"You're kidding."

"Only one patient was awake at this hour; his pain meds cut out at midnight and he's due for more at 8:00; go figure. We chatted for a while until he dozed off without them."

"What did the doctor say about _you_?"

She shrugs. "They took x-rays of my head but couldn't find anything."

He doesn't rise to her baiting smile. "I'm really sorry, I should have been with you. I shouldn't have been writing."

"I wondered why you were so fiery."

"I shouldn't have been–" but she waves it away.

"I'm fine."

"I shouldn't have gone to sleep. I should've –"

"I'm the one who insisted you rest. It was going to be hours before Karen would be out of danger and I can catch a nap later today after I see Abby in the morning. You can't."

"That's not what I meant." He stands up, feeling his muscles protest after too long in the chair. "I was furious when I got there and saw you'd been hurt. When I talked you into becoming Chaplain I never _imagined _it would put you in the line of fire, yet that's all it seems to have ever done."

"Not all the time. And I like a little action in my life."

"That's not what I–"

"Timmy, I'm a _big _girl. I don't carry a gun but I have very high powered backing. And a gun wouldn't have helped tonight, not unless Abby or I was willing to shoot him."

"But–"

"A chuisle, I'm _fine_. I love it that you were concerned and I love you too, but let's just go see Karen now, shall we?"

xx

In the Recovery Room three patients lie on wheeled beds, Koshi in the third niche. She has several layers of gauze wound about her bandaged neck, and into each arm drip the flows from two IV units, one clear, one red.

Tim waves Siobhan up to join him, hoping Koshi will feel more relaxed if she sees a familiar face.

"Miss Koshi?" he calls softly, catches the woman's partial attention. Her eyes turn to him and she struggles to focus. When he has as much of her attention as he feels he can get, he introduces himself, leaving off the priest's title, leaving only the assumption that she too is NCIS. He can almost feel the phantom impact of Gibbs' hand against his head, but this is his interview and he'll conduct it at his own judgment.

"Ms. Koshi, do you remember what happened to you?"

"Whe – where am I?"

"You're in George Washington University Hospital, you've had surgery. You–" it's dangerous and improper to lead a witness, especially one as impaired as this woman, but perhaps he can just get her started. "You were attacked at 'Starbase 86'. Do you remember?"

"Big … strong … too strong, heeee … he was sitting … at a table toward the rear. Iiiii… went over… take his order… he came up… grabbed me… he – he – he _bit_ me! God, he _bit_ my neck!" Tim puts his hands on her shoulders to stop her from sitting up. She's now completely aware, the distress and the accompanying rush of adrenaline blasting her awake.

"That was long ago. It's over, you're safe."

She gradually believes him. "I – couldn't' _fight_ him, couldn't _move_. Strong. He was so strong!"

"Ms. Koshi, do you know who he is?" She shakes her head. "Have you ever seen him before?" Again that silent shake. "Can you describe him?"

"I - I - I can't. I can't see his face. I saw him - I can't see him! I can't remember!"

"Ms. Koshi," he calls again, using her name to keep her grounded. Ducky, he supposes, would diagnose this as hysterical amnesia. The memory is there, it'll come. She needs time, and to be kept calm. She can be worked through it. "What color hair did he have?"

"What?"

"What color hair?"

She visibly struggles to remember. "Black. I think it was black. Yes, it was black."

"Long or short?"

"I'm - I'm not sure, I don't remember. I don't remember!"

"It's okay. Don't push it, just let it come on its own. It'll come."

"Green."

"_Green_?" 'Gibbs should have held this for the morning.'

"They were – His eys were _green_!" she exclaims in rising panic, drawing three nurses to the niche.

"Helen?" Siobhan cuts in, slicing into her rising panic.

When Karen focuses on her, it takes her a moment, then she recognizes: "T'Racy?"

Tim looks back at her. "_Don't_ ask," she tells him, "it's a long, embarrassing story. Helen, his eyes, they were green?"

"Yes, green. Bright green! Wrong green! _Evil_ green!"

"I'm sorry," one of the nurses cuts in, stepping into the niche, not sounding sorry at all. "You'll have to come back later. I can't have you disturbing Miss Koshi _or the other patients_. Come back tomorrow."

"Of course, I'm sorry," Tim says. It will benefit nothing to push, and they already have descriptions from Abby and Shav. He turns back to the woman who's just beginning to come down from her frantic peak. "I'm sorry. Please relax. We'll see you later."

She nods sharply, shaking.

xx

Outside the Recovery Room door, Tim halts his friend. "Shav?"

She turns back to him. "I thought I saw the same thing, but it was dark and I only had a moment. I thought I might have been mistaken; it all happened too fast. His eyes weren't a natural green, I think they were contacts. They were too bright to be natural."

"That helps." He glances back at the closed door, then to his watch. "Come on, I can just get two hours in bed."

"Come _on_?" she asks, her tone heavy with innuendo. "Sorry, _I _have a busy day ahead.

He knows her thoughts, she'd try to play him out of his heavy thoughts, but while he'd normally welcome the interplay, wherever she's going to lead him, he shakes his head. "Too tired."


	7. Dobbs

Chapter Seven  
Dobbs

Gibbs still has his overcoat on when he enters Abby's unusually quiet lab, finding the woman subdued. He hadn't known her not to have her nerve-jangling music off since the day she'd been dumped by her friend Marty Pearson.

This situation is a lot more serious.

"Hi, Gibbs," she greets him morosely. "You here to yell at me too?"

"No." He'd gotten all his yelling at her out of his system last night.

"Good, because I really can't take any more this morning."

"What happened?" He'd come up from the garage hoping she'd had some results on the DNA testing. Now he's surprised, the normally elated woman isn't morose - she seems on the verge of tears.

"The Director called me to come into her office at 6:30 this morning, and when I got here she was all Hiroshima. You ever have anyone yelling at you when you have a hangover? It's no fun, Gibbs. I'm on report and I had to sign a disciplinary statement about what happened last night. She says I might be suspended."

"Let me worry about that, you won't be suspended."

"But Gibbs–"

"Abs, let me handle that. Do you have anything on the DNA?"

She shakes her head, still depressed. "No, I told you–"

"To see you after breakfast. It's after breakfast."

"Maybe for you, I haven't been hungry since–" she's interrupted by a 'ping' from one of her machines. "Holy Cow – I could eat one!"

It amazes Gibbs how her morose mood can vanish in a burst of delight. The screen before her lights up in a montage of colored bars that look like an upright, over-decorated medal bar. Whatever Abby finds in that mélange, it makes her leap for joy, not the easiest thing to imaging - of do - if she has a hangover.

"What do you see?" To him it looks like abstract modern art, and he suspects the artist had double of whatever the woman had consumed last night.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Lovely. Have it blown up and mounted on your wall."

"I will."

"First tell me what it _is_."

"The answer to your prayer."

"What's the _question_?"

She looks over her shoulder at him. "Have you ever noticed how the happier I get the grouchier you become?"

"Then tell me and we can both dance."

"This …" her hands run rapidly over the keyboard, "is _that_!" The multitude of bars vanishes, replaced by a medium close-up of a face above a Police booking placard and fronting a series of height bars. The thin face is Caucasian, with black hair and deep brown eyes. The name on the placard is Kevin Dobbs.

"That's our vampire?"

"You bet your hemoglobin. His DNA was swabbed right out of Angelina Costa's wounds. The idiot may have wiped the surface saliva off, but no one's as good as me!"

"Modestly spoken."

"I have the right to be self-glorifying, I was depressed."

"Not anymore. Send it upstairs." He starts away.

"_Gibbs_!" When he turns back, she has her arms up, outstretched in classic dance posture, a broad smile on her lips. "Remember your promise."

He comes back, takes her in his arms, leads a single step to his right, releases her and starts out.

"That's _it_?"

"Be grateful," he advises as he approaches the glass door, "that's more than some of my ex-wives got."

xx

"You wanted to see me, Director?" Gibbs asks, striding through the door, having passed Cynthia Sumner at his usual pace. It's beginning to feel like a rerun of yesterday morning. Shepherd hadn't sent for him, he's just being polite.

She slaps the file folder onto the desk and removes her glasses, dropping them atop it and gives him her very best glare. As his 'probie' from long years back, she's had plenty of time to practice. "After the morning I've had I'd rather not see you for a week, but yes." Gibbs looks down at his former partner as she strives to push down some of her anger. He knows the fire in the woman will soon burn someone. "I've just had a long talk with Abby."

"I hope you weren't too rough on her."

Shepherd is amazed. If _anyone_ is rough on his people…. "How I handle _my_ people is not your concern, Agent Gibbs. I was awakened late in the night by Metro, who told me one of my people improperly called a District-wide alert for a 'federal agent' who is no such thing. Do you know what her response was?"

"She was drunk."

"She was–!" Shepherd stops, not having expected to be anticipated. "She called a 33 code for a civilian. The 33 code, in fact the whole damned 10 series, is restricted to MOS; that's Members of the _Police_ Service. O'Mallory's not even a full member of _our_ Service; she's a useful Auxiliary, not an Agent."

"She didn't call it. She was out cold."

"Yes." She fights her anger down, then scrutinizes him more closely. "I thought you didn't like her."

"Got nothing to do with it. She's got one of our badges."

"Well," she concedes the point, "after soothing a lot of rumpled feathers, I learned what happened last night. Not from your report, mind you, but from MPDC. Now what have you to add to that?"

"Probably not a lot. They were at 'Starbase 86' when this bastard attacked a waitress."

"I thought you don't believe in coincidences."

"I don't, but I still believe in bad luck. And in a spot where the staff and some of the patrons are in costume, he could've come as Dracula and nobody would've noticed."

"Have you an ID?"

"Abby found one, Kevin Dobbs. Still have to check him out."

"I want to know the minute you do."

"In the meantime," he says, "I want to talk to you about Abby."

"I'll bet you do."

"We talking Suspension here?"

Shepherd wants to say yes but, "Damn it, Jethro, we both know we can't get along without Abby any more than we could without Ducky. We don't have a budget in the millions, not like the FBI. We've one crime lab, not twenty. Suspending Abby over this would be shooting NCIS in the foot, but I feel I had to make some kind of response to what happened. She crossed a mighty big line and MPDC wanted someone's head. I had to promise them one."

"Give 'em mine."

"I don't dislike them that much. Of _course_, I'm not giving her, but it'd do her good to think next time. She and O'Mallory might both have been killed, not for being at the wrong place at the wrong time but going bare handed against a murderer. So, no, I'm not going to suspend her. Abby's an extraordinarily brilliant woman – but she does have to think."

xxx

"You have Abby's ID on that bloodsucker?" Gibbs asks as he strides into the bullpen.

"Kevin Dobbs." DiNozzo confirms. "He's got a rap sheet as long as your arm, as they used to say on 'Adam-12'. His record goes all the way back to sealed records from Juvie, but I think I can probably break – I mean 'get something'. Or McGoogle here can do one of his 'Tron' special effects thingies and drop a logic bomb on them to blow out the records."

"If you knew what you were saying, Tony," McGee cuts in crossly, "you wouldn't be saying it."

"Well, at least I know–"

"Not when to shut up," Gibbs finishes.

"I would, but I've got more to say. Dobbs's been busted half a dozen times for ADW, nine for AR, over a dozen for menacing and a whole string of other charges, then suddenly he fell off the face of the Earth. His parole officer lost track of him, credit cards and accounts and all else just stopped. He's been off the grid for so long MPDC figured he was dead, but no one came complaining he was missing so they didn't look too hard for him. I think since he's a vampie he went underground."

"Dig him up."

"On it, boss."

xxx

Thus begins a long and intense hunt, one made no more hopeful by the fact that all the resources of civilian law enforcement has been unsuccessful in turning up the convicted multiple felon. Then, on his way back from the head, Gibbs is met with some good news.

"Adam Bradley was as good as his word." DiNozzo announces, "he just called and fingered John Vincent DeKalb."

"Not _Dobbs_?"

"You're gonna love this, boss. Wait for it."

"Done waiting."

"Seems there's a vampire fringe out there that _does_ like to bite. It's headed by a guy who calls himself 'Oberon'. Bradley's and Oberon's groups talk and will socialize but not share. Bradley just had a long chat with Oberon before he called us. Anyway, DeKalb got rejected by Oberon's bunch a couple of months ago. Like them, he's deep into the Vamp thing, but he was considered too lunatic fringe for the lunatic fringe. They have rules about non-violence and consensual sucking. Seems he didn't want to play by the rules."

"Why didn't they turn him in?"

"According to them, he hadn't _done_ anything. He just creeped out the creeps so they rejected his application and that, to them, was that."

"Did we get an address?"

"Bradley gave us what Oberon says DeKalb gave them. The address is in the middle of Hebrew Cemetery."

"In _Wythe_!"

"That place just keeps creeping up, doesn't it, Boss? I figure this guy must've heard about the party from some locals."

"Ya _think_?"

"Well the membership committee didn't appreciate the joke either when they dropped by to check him out. I ran my own trace and I'll tell you what I found. You're gonna love it."

"Done waiting." This time he raises his hand warningly.

"Okay, there are two John Vincent DeKalbs in Virginia. One is 87 years old, a retired steamfitter who probably can't bite more than porridge, and then there's a John Vincent DeKalb who actually _is_buried in Hebrew Cemetery."

Ziva's head snaps up. "Tell me that they did not put a 'DeKalb' into–!" but her outrage is cut short by DiNozzo's upraised hand.

"Seems he's converted before marrying the daughter of a Rabbi, and was too young anyway for the Blitz."

"That's _Hol_–!

Gibbs sidesteps to put himself between them. "You aren't going to tell me he died in the past month, are you?"

"Sorry, boss, 11 years ago."

"Children?"

"That's the kicker. He did have a son from a previous marriage, if you can call it that. They got married while the kid was in nursery school. Guess what the woman's last name was. Come on, guess."

"Dobbs."

"Awww, you guessed. In addition to Juvie Hall and numerous lockups throughout Virginia, 'Kevin Dobbs' spent a number of years in asylums, sentenced there for crimes committed during uncontrolled rages. Basically he has no self-control. He was released five years ago on a test pass and disappeared. I think he started using his birth father's name. Kevin Dobbs has vanished."

"A name change did that?" Ziva asks, as dubious as they all are.

"It could if done unofficially. He used it as an alias, stopped going to his old haunts, stopped seeing people, practically drained his bank account and Kevin Dobbs just dropped off the face of the Earth, or more likely crawled into a grave somewhere."

"BOLO. Maybe someone can dig him up."

xx

"It looks like Abby and Shav being in the same club with Count Dracula wasn't the coincidence it appeared to be," McGee cuts in before Gibbs can step away from Tony's desk.

"We don't believe in coincidences," DiNozzo says before Gibbs can, earning a hard look.

"Well, this sure isn't one. In the past two months there have been four cases of women being attacked, where the common factor was that they were bitten. All had been partying in bars or nightclubs prior to the attacks. One was attacked in her apartment, one in a private house, one taken on a rooftop and one dragged into an alley."

"Four cases and Metro isn't–?" Gibbs has heard too many outrageous things for one morning.

"Only two of the cases, the private home and the alley, ever involved Metro," McGee tells them. "The other two refused to file charges, afraid of reprisals. The guy scared them that badly. I pulled these records from hospitals; Saint Ann's in College Park, George Washington University Hospital, Quick Check in Kettering and MetroHealth in Donovan's Corner."

"They're _all_ alive?"

"It looks like Costa is the first one we know he killed, but I'm still looking. Koshi is the first one to be attacked _in_ a club. It looks to me like he's getting either bolder or further off the wall."

No one says it, but either one is very bad.

"DiNozzo, printouts and photos of Dobbs - or DeKalb, whoever he is, then you and McGee take the private house and the apartment. Ziva, you and I have the roof and the alley."

x

They don't even begin gathering their equipment when Abby, wearing the large silver and ruby cross Tony had given her on his return from Germany two years ago over a black tee shirt declaring that 'Vampires suck!', enters the bullpen. Gibbs knows she hadn't been wearing it earlier, she 'd been wearing a sparkly shirt over her silver chain enhanced leather miniskirt. 'How many outrageous shirts does she have downstairs?' he thinks, but is afraid to find out. She carries a set of four very small cardboard boxes in her hand.

"What'cha got there, Abby?" DiNozzo asks, always attentive to the young woman, especially when she's in her more outré outfits.

"I brought you some gifts," she opens one of the boxes, displaying an inch high silver cross that gleams in the light. "My programs don't need me to run so I brought these straight up. I spoke to Siobhan last night, this morning she dropped these off. Sorry, but she had to run, McGee."

"It's all right," he says, "I'll touch bases with her later."

"Bet that's not all you'll tou–" his glare silences her and she reconsiders. "Maybe I'm still not sober yet." But she can see in Gibbs' expression that the humor isn't her best idea.

"Anyway, you can use them as tie-tacks, lapel pins," she distributes the boxes quickly as she speaks, winding up back at DiNozzo's desk, "or anything you want."

"Abby."

She turns. "Come on, Gibbs, you _need_ them."

"Why?"

"This guy thinks he's a vampire, he's going to respond _as _a vampire. Vampires _can__'__t_ look at crosses. He'll look away. Even if he does so for a second that's a second for you to have the advantage."

"Did you have O'Mallory bless them?" DiNozzo quips, trying to get her to see reason.

"You bet your bippy I did, actually she already had, can you picture her giving someone an unblessed cross? After last night she didn't need to be convinced at all. I just wanted to make sure you had all the protection you could get."

Ziva closes her box, holds it out for Abby to take back. "I do not think so."

"Come on, Ziva, just this once. Vampires aren't going to be bothered by a star. You need it for this wacko. Please?"

She appeals so wistfully Gibbs decides the matter for all of them by taking the one she'd put into his hands and attaching it to the lapel of his jacket, his eyes conveying his instruction to the others. Eventually Ziva gives in, burying enough of her distaste to attach the emblem.

"All right," Gibbs says, "you're our resident expert, take us out."

"Huh?" She's not sure she heard him properly.

"Tell us what to expect, and how we can deal with this bastard."

x

"Oh. Well, let's see," she hadn't expected to be asked to take the floor, but gathers what she knows quickly. "This guy really thinks he's one of the Undead. Not only is he PCP strong, a certified wacco, but he's _behaving _like a real vampire. I swear, Gibbs, when Siobhan threw a glass of 'holy water' in his face you'd think it was acid. He went berserk – though he ran off like the fastest sprinter I've ever seen. He was over the horizon before I could look up.

"But the point is that he flinched in pain all through Siobhan's blessing and did the whole acid in the face cavorting when she splashed him."

"So what does that tell you? How can we use it?"

"There are a lot of vampire myths, Tony can tell you the cinematic vampires change all the time. So assuming him to be a product of the Hammer and 'Dark Shadows' era, with a little of 'Lost Boys' and 'Bordello of Blood', I can tell you what I have that's not too contradictory."

"You mean he follows set rules, so he's going to have both strengths _and_ weaknesses we can use."

"Yep."

"All right, go ahead."

x

"A vampire has superhuman strength; I think his doesn't come from PCP but from being a total loon. That holds up because only a certified wacko would attack a girl one night, drink nearly four liters of her blood, and then be out for desert the next night." She has to stop, to push the thought out of her head before her stomach revolts more than it already has.

"Vampires can't stand the sight of the Cross, so I'm really sorry I saddled Siobhan with that stupid IDIC last night, she might've worn a cross instead. He flinches at prayers or the name of God, and a face full of Holy Water was the best thing of the night.

"Now, he can hypnotize with his eyes, or likely _thinks_ he can. If he tries it on _you_, you could possibly lull him into a false sense of security before you surprise him."

"Could work," Gibbs grants.

"A vampire can fly – so maybe if cornered he'll jump out of a window."

"Forget it."

"Just a thought," she says sullenly.

"I'd rather hear your other thoughts."

"Okay. He can't endure sunlight, and must sleep during the day in a place devoid of light. I'm betting he's a traditionalist and will sleep in a coffin –"

"Sounds familiar," Tony observes.

"DiNozzo."

"Shutting up, boss."

"Smart man, Tony," Abby agrees. "Now, a coffin is not essential, but if that or his crypt contains samples of his native earth, some vampires in films and books have been defeated by corrupting or stealing the dirt. Bram Stoker used consecrated Eucharists in the coffins."

"McGee, can you get any?"

McGee feels his face collapse. "I – I – I –."

"I don't mean _blessed_, McGee," he's amazed he has to clarify it. "I mean just, you know, the plain stuff."

"I – I can ask." He'll do it by phone, however; this way he can be out of her reach.

"There are two sure ways to defeat a vampire," Abby continues.

"Name them."

"You can drive a stake through his heart, but it has to nail him into the coffin, and follow this with decapitation. Or you can set him on fire and burn him alive."

She enjoys his fiery response to this.

xxx

Edie Parziali doesn't like strangers coming to her apartment unannounced. It takes two minutes, mostly of Ziva's assurances, before five bolts are turned, followed by the sliding of a chain lock. When the door opens, it only does so to the three inch limit of another chain. Gibbs is not going to point out that a thousand locks wouldn't help; this door wouldn't stand up against a good kick.

"Show me your badges," the blonde woman says, little more than her right eye and a segment of her face visible. Gibbs and Ziva comply, while standing well away from the door. "What does the Navy have to do with me?"

"We believe the man who attacked you also assaulted a Navy Seaman."

"Raped me. On my way home from work he raped me. Bit me! Can't go out, on Disability."

"Is that when you put the locks on the door?"

"No one's ever getting in here again."

Gibbs feels sorry for her; she is the prisoner and a particularly unsafe one, but he can't tell her that without undermining the last security she thinks she has. "Ms. Parziali, we'd like to show you a picture, see if you recognize him."

She thinks it over – for a long time. "All right." Her voice couldn't be lower and still carry.

When he holds out the photo of Kevin Dobbs, the supposed 'John Vincent DeKalb', Edie gasps and slams the door. "Get away from me!" she screams over the sound of a multitude of locks clicking into place. "_Get away from me_!" her shriek is even louder, coupled with retreating footfalls and the slam of another door.

Ziva looks up at Gibbs. "I shall take that as a 'yes'."

xx

When the two teams rendezvous, a compilation presents some disturbing information. Kevin Dobbs, a.k.a. 'John Vincent DeKalb', is their target. His brutality against his other victims presents a series of details none of the agents particularly want to dwell on. There are, however, certain things that each case has in common;

"This guy likes to bite," McGee relates unnecessarily, "and his targets are always sexual."

"No need to say where," Gibbs directs.

"No. But both Scottoliza and Griffin said he _acted_ like a vampire. When I pressed for details, I'd say they mean he _over_acted like a vampire. The way he moved, the way he spoke, it was like he got his training out of one of DiNozzo's movies."

"Hey!" The outrage would almost be enough to make Gibbs smile if he didn't have Avila's and Parziali's words ringing in his ears.

"Good work."

"What's next?"

"Now we meet the vampires."

On the way back to Headquarters, only one more telephone call remains to be made.

xxx

"I'm going out to meet with some vampires," Gibbs announces as he strides into Autopsy. It's a task he'd been prepared for this morning, when he'd first heard of the group, until other things had crept up. Sometimes he wishes he had a team of ten instead of five.

"I trust you picked up some garlic from the café kitchen," Ducky quips.

Having had enough questionable humor already, Gibbs instead turns to his friend's new assistant, recalling an earlier case when Michelle Lee had surprised him with a vast store of knowledge about witchcraft. "What do you know about vampires?"

She shrugs. "They suck?"

'Well, I can't get lucky twice,' he thinks. Just as well, he can leave her behind with a clear conscience.

"Who is it you are going to see, Jethro?" Ducky, recognizing Gibbs' nearly exhausted patience, manages to deflect attention away from the young woman.

"El Jefe of the vampires; calls himself 'Oberon'."

"Ah, yes, the Fairy King in Shakespeare's 'Midsummer Night's Dream.' You shall have to let me know if it was a fortuitous choice."

"I was in that," Samantha says brightly.

"Indeed?" Ducky asks, turning to his assistant.

"Yes, I was Puck – well, Robin Goodfellow."

"Puck's a man," Gibbs points out, already sorry for allowing himself to be drawn into this conversation.

Samantha grins up at him. "They didn't have anyone else short enough." Since she barely reaches five two, he can't contest that.

"I did it in High School, before my growth spurt," she glances at Ducky, knowing he is too much of a gentleman to take advantage of that line, "but I still remember most of the lines," she draws a deep breath but catches Gibbs' glare, "which probably aren't the best for right now."

"No." He turns on his heel and strides out.

x

Ducky watches his friend's departure, wishing the man would devote more effort to patience. Behind him he can hear Samantha's soft voice.

"'If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended, that you have but slumber'd here'," she looks up as Ducky turns and sighs sadly. "He _really_ doesn't like me, does he?"

"Don't let it worry you, Sammy; Agent Gibbs simply takes a while to warm to people."

"How long?" Since she'll be here only during the Palmers' honeymoon, she hopes it'll be in time.

"Well," he says with a smile to soften the sting, "in Agent DiNozzo's case, I believe it was some three years."

"Great."


	8. Trial

Chapter Eight  
Trial

Rev. Siobhan O'Mallory sits in the back of the courtroom next to Father George Donaldson, each of them in their severe shirts, George in black with white tab collar, Siobhan in her light blue with wrapabout collar, waiting for the call to report to the stand. She'd gotten precious little sleep after Starbase 86, the hospital and then a rush round trip to see Abby in her lab, and the swelling at the back of her head still hurts. She doubts her upcoming testimony is going to make her feel any better.

Behind Judge John Wilson are golden words adhered to the wood: 'In God We Trust'. She sincerely hopes so. Right now her early lunch sits heavily and she wishes she'd skipped it.

At the Defense table, wearing an orange prison jumpsuit with manacles on his wrists and ankles, Charles Morley sits beside his court-appointed Public Defender. She knows he had refused an attorney but the court won't allow him the option of not being defended. Morley is a large man, physically conditioned to hard labor, a square faced man with a shock of prematurely graying hair. She had trusted that face once, now she refuses to look at him.

Assistant District Attorney Jocelyn Landau rises and announces; "I call Reverend Siobhan O'Mallory to the stand."

x

She's not nervous, she's gone over her testimony twice with the ADA already. She knows that after establishment questions, she'll be led through a series of questions that will forward the Prosecutor's case and hopefully lead to a conviction. After she is sworn in she takes her seat and tries to relax. The black haired woman approaches her, ready to conduct the interview just as it had been rehearsed.

"For the record, would you state your name and occupation?"

"Reverend Siobhan Marie O'Mallory, Priest."

"Where do you perform your duties?"

"For the past two years I have been the Curate of St. Mary the Virgin Episcopal Church, on New York Avenue Northwest."

"Are you acquainted with the defendant in this case?"

"Yes, I am."

"How?"

"He was the Church gardener for five years."

"Is he in this courtroom today?"

"Yes."

"Can you point him out?"

x

Siobhan doesn't want to. To this point she has kept strict eye contact with Landau, now she must look past her. "That man seated at the defense table; Charles Morley."

"Let the record show the witness has identified the defendant. Now, Reverend, going back to the time of the alleged incidents this past summer, when did you become aware of problems related to your congregation?"

"When Federal Agents of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service visited us, that is Father George Donaldson and myself, to tell us that one of our Eucharistic Ministers, Miss Christina Dumas, had been found dead."

"Why were Federal Agents investigating this case, rather than Metropolitan Police?"

"Tina was a Lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps. The Naval Criminal Investigative Service has jurisdiction over her."

"Was their visit the first indication you had of a death?"

"No, it was not."

"Please explain."

"Someone, unknown to me at the time, came to me during a Sacramental Confession and revealed information. He also told me a detail of the crime."

"Tell us that detail."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"The information given to me was done so in a Sacramental Confession. I'm prohibited from ever revealing anything at all about that confession."

"Your Honor," Landau addresses Judge Wilson, "there is extensive historical and legal precedent to support this restriction, which is formally known as 'Seal of the Confessional' or 'Sacramental Seal'."

"Proceed, Counselor; it will be called for if needed."

"Thank you. Reverend, did you know at the time the identity of the confessor?"

"No, I did not."

"Getting to the details of this case…."

x

So it goes for over an hour, Landau taking her through everything about the investigation that excludes the two confessions. It's an intense series in which every fact of those nightmare days is scrutinized. It deals with rape, torture, whippings and crucifixion, culminating in the climactic assault in the Church's Sanctuary, even upon its sacred altar.

Then the first half of the interview is over. "I have no further questions at this time."

Judge Wilson turns to the Public Defender. "Your witness, Counselor."

x

Paul Morrow approaches the stand, buttoning his blue suit jacket. "Reverend, how many times did you hear a confession allegedly related to this case?"

"Twice."

"Was it the same person each time?"

"The same person."

"You recognized him immediately as the same person who allegedly confessed prior to hearing about the first murder from the Federal Agents?"

This has already been covered in detail. "No, not immediately. His voice was disguised."

"Yes, so you said, different each time. Did you recognize who the voice belonged to?"

"No."

"Forgive me, Reverend, but is this one of those professional positions where you officially do not 'know' who is confessing, or did you actually not know him."

"I didn't recognize the voice."

"Reverend, how many members are in your congregation?"

"On a Sunday, we average almost three hundred, somewhat less on weekday services."

"Rather, how many are on your rolls?"

Siobhan doesn't believe the lawyer is as uncertain as he sounded. They're normally very precise in their words. "Nine hundred thirty seven."

"Quite a number to keep track of. Do you know them all?"

"Some better and more frequently than others but yes, I'm acquainted with all of them."

"Including the defendant, Charles Morley?"

"Yes."

"You testified you spoke to him at one point during the investigation, regarding the memorializing of the garden in Lieutenant Dumas' name?"

"Yes."

"And yet you testified that on two occasions you allegedly had conversations with him and failed to identify him."

"He changed his manner and the quality of his voice."

"Yes, you said that. You claim Mr. Morley, an educated man, spoke 'in a most common manner', for _all_ the years you knew him, presumably for all the years of his tenure with the parish, yet in the confessional he did not. Was the voice you heard in the confessional the voice you knew to be that of Charles Morley?"

It is a long moment before she can answer.

"Reverend, _was_ the voice you heard in the confessional the voice you knew to be that of Charles Morley?"

She doesn't want to say it. She must say it. "No."

x

"Now be careful with your answer here. When Charles Morley confronted you in the Sanctuary of St. Mary the Virgin Church, what did he say?"

"He said I should have kept my mouth shut, punched me and tried to strangle me. When Special Agent Gibbs, Father Donaldson and Doctor Mallard came out from the office through the Sacristy, he used me as a living shield between himself and Agent Gibbs' gun."

"Did he at that time say anything to indicate he had killed Christina Dumas?"

"I don't recall clearly."

"You don't recall? Reverend, pardon me but to this point your recall of the details of this case has been exemplary. Why don't you recall?"

"I was injured, scared; it was a tense moment."

"Yes, I can see where your memory would be quite faulty."

"Wait, that's not what I meant."

"Do you remember him saying, when he allegedly attacked you, that he killed Christina Dumas?"

"No. He didn't say anything about what he did in the pas–"

"Do you remember him saying, when he allegedly attacked you, that he killed Christine Night?"

"No, but–"

"Do you remember him saying, when he allegedly attacked you, that he killed Christa Alverez?"

"No."

x

"Reverend, you stated you are the Curate of St. Mary's Church?"

"Yes." 'What does this have to do with it?' she thinks bitterly. 'Give me a chance to answer!'

"But that is not all you are, is it?"

Siobhan can see the trap being set, just not how to avoid it. "Not anymore."

"Indeed. You also have another job, do you not?"

"Yes."

"Please speak up, Reverend."

"Yes, I do have another job."

"And what is that job?"

"I am a Chaplain for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

"At the Washington Navy Yard?"

"Yes."

"The same Naval Criminal Investigative Service that investigated the alleged crimes the defendant is charged with?"

"Yes."

"Objection, your Honor," Landau protests. "Relevance?"

"Your Honor, I intend to prove relevance."

"You may proceed, but prove it directly."

"Of course, your Honor. Reverend O'Mallory, the details of that rather dramatic arrest have been widely publicized."

x

Morrow goes to the defense desk and extracts a newspaper from his briefcase. "I have here a copy of the Washington Sun, dated the day after the incident. Whose picture appears on the front page?"

"Mine."

"And would you be so kind as to read the headline into the record?"

She would have preferred never to see it again. "It says 'Battling Woman Priest Captures Murderer'."

He pulls out another newspaper. "And the headline on this one?"

She detests this one even more. "It says 'Combating Cleric Collars Criminal'."

"Yes, the article text is equally colorful. I'll forego reading it into the record unless my learned opponent objects, but it does go into extensive detail and interviews with witnesses."

"Not with me."

"Granted. I couldn't find an actual interview attributed to you either here or," he pulls other papers from his case, "the Star, the Post, the Times, the City Paper; I could go on. There are also televised and radio reports I can submit if required. However, the reports all contain extensive interviews of eyewitnesses to the event. It's my understanding an evening mass was scheduled to begin at the very hour the climactic battle took place." He puts the newspapers away, all but one. This one he opens and approaches the stand.

"Reverend O'Mallory, in reply to Agent Gibbs', as the arresting officer's, words to the effect that no one had to be hurt, did you say;" he reads from the Sun, "'no, Agent Gibbs, someone has to get hurt'?"

She can't lie, though she wishes she could. "Yes, I did say that."

"And then what did you do?"

Shame makes her hesitate, but there is no way out. "I kicked him in the testicles and broke away from his grip."

"And then did you get clear of the line of fire and allow Agent Gibbs to effect the arrest?"

"No."

"Please speak up, Reverend."

"No, I _didn't_."

"Even though you were no longer being held and were no longer in danger of injury?"

"No."

"What did you say to the defendant?" he asks, clearly consulting the newspaper in his hands as he speaks.

She tries to firm her voice, to push regret and shame aside. Anger helps. "I said 'that was for Chrissie Night'."

"I see. And then you got out of the way and allowed the arrest?" In the silence, he looks up from the newspaper. "I remind you, Reverend, you are under oath."

"I _know_ that."

"Then please answer the question."

"Then I told him 'and this is for Tina Dumas' and I kicked him again."

"In the testicles."

"Yes."

"Are you aware that a single impact to that region can have a debilitating effect upon a person, frequently serious enough to render him incapacitated for some period of time?"

"Yes."

"Yet you did it twice."

"Yes."

"Then, Reverend," he continues; not breaking his gaze from the newsprint, "what happened next?"

She looks at the far door, at the window, anywhere but at him. "I grabbed him by the shirt, told him 'Get thee behind me, Satan' and threw him out of the Sanctuary."

Morrow looks up. "You literally _threw_ him off the elevated platform and into the aisle between the pews."

"Yes." She has to raise her voice. "I'm ashamed of what I did, but I was furious and I did it."

"And then what did the members of the congregation gathered in the Church for the Service do?" He looks up. "I'm sorry, Reverend, I didn't get that."

"They _applauded_."

"I see. A Priest, Curate of her Church, kicks a congregant twice in the testicles, tells him 'get thee behind me _Satan_' and literally _throws_ him out of the Sanctuary and –"

"Objection!"

"Withdrawn."

But he's already achieved his goal.

x

"Now, Reverend, let us come to the following day. You had a visitor from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, did you not?"

She doesn't care how he learned of this, the visit hadn't been secret, just life changing. "Yes."

"Was the case closed at that time?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know if the case was closed or open?"

"I wasn't privy to the details of the case's status."

"All right. Who was that visitor from NCIS?"

"Special Agent Timothy McGee."

"And what is his relation to this case?"

"He was one of the investigating agents."

"Is there any other relationship he has? We'll come back to that. What was his reason for visiting you at that time?" Siobhan knows that his cutting off of his own question is a psychological attack, letting her see the assault before it happens, and prays for the strength and guidance.

She takes a deep breath, feeling herself entering the lion's den and the jaws are opening wide. "There was a vacancy in the office of Chaplain for the NCIS Headquarters District. Following the approval of Director Jennifer Shepherd, he offered me the position and I, reluctantly, accepted."

"Why 'reluctantly'?"

"I felt my duties to the Church were consuming so much of my time I couldn't take on another position, but he convinced me that there were areas of service that I could cover. He also told me that Tina Dumas had sought a Chaplain's position before she died and that I –"

"In other words, he played you."

"No! That's not what I mean."

"So you accepted the job."

"Yes."

"Less than a full day after implicating my client in three murders."

"No!"

"Then you didn't accept the offer?"

"I did accept, but it wasn't like –"

"Reverend, what is the salary of an NCIS Chaplain?"

She hates that he keeps cutting her off without ever listening, but knows from Landau that she has little choice. She also knows he has all the answers to his questions already, it's just a matter of making her play into his trap. The lion is getting close. "Thirty seven thousand dollars."

"And how many days a week do you work at NCIS Headquarters?"

"I'm on call twenty four hours a day."

"I didn't ask you how long you're on call. A doctor with private practice is on call twenty four hours a day, but he has office hours which are usually posted and adhered to. What are your 'office hours'?"

The lion's jaws have closed on her, she feels herself going halfway down its gullet. "I'm there officially on Tuesdays, oh eight hundred to sixteen hundred, though I can be paged at any hour and always –"

"_One_ day a week for eight _hours_. That comes out to $88.94 an hour, doesn't it? $711.53 a 'day'. Quite a lucrative income for a job just granted the day after naming my client in three murders."

She's not surprised he has the figure on the top of his head, but the picture he's painting... "It's not _like_ that. I don't even keep the money,"

"Thirty seven thousand dollars and you don't _keep_ it?"

"I don't need it. I live off my stipend from St. Mary's."

"You're telling us you don't keep any of the money from NCIS?"

"That's right."

"What do you do with it?"

"I give it to the Church."

"Saint Mary the Virgin Church on New York Avenue NW."

"That's right."

"The church where _you're_ the Curate."

"Yes. No, wait, it's not like that."

"Special Agent Timothy McGee is no stranger to you, is he?"

"No." She feels herself reaching the lion's stomach.

x

"How long have you known Agent McGee, or should I pull out the transcripts of records from St. Francis High School to help your memory?"

"Objection, Counsel is badgering the witness."

"Sustained."

"There's no need to be snide, sir; Agent McGee and I _have_ known one another since High School."

"Not to ask you your age, madam, but how many years is that?"

She's already told him not to be snide. "Some fifteen years."

"And what is your relationship with him. Is he a colleague, a fellow employee, or is it something more?"

"I–"

"Aren't you, in fact, _dating_ him?"

"Well, yes, but –"

"The man you have known for 'some fifteen years', who arranged a lucrative employment for you just a _day_ after your 'capture' of my client, is the man you are presently dating."

"Wait, that's not–"

"You are, in fact, as members of the _same_ Federal Agency where you serve in the capacity of _Priest_, carrying on a romantic _affair_ with him, are you not?"

"Objection!"

"Withdrawn."

"You've got it all wrong, we're not–!"

"The question has been withdrawn," Morrow counters.

"But I want to answer that!" The jury will assume she's bound by Roman laws, not–

"Reverend," Judge Wilson gathers her attention, "you cannot answer."

"But what he's implying–!"

"No more questions," Morrow announces, returning to his desk.

"Please step down, Reverend."

xx

Standing, she has to support herself on the railing. Her heart is pounding so hard it hurts, and her breath comes in carefully disguised gasps. Unable to remain in the room, to stand the stares, she pushes through the large door in the rear of the courtroom.

But when she reaches the wooden bench across the hall she realizes Donaldson is at her side. He helps her to sit as she covers her face with her hand. "Oh my God!"

"Siobhan–"

"He tore me apart in there!"

"I know."

"He painted me as a violent woman, a liar, a fraud, a money grubbing _thief_ collecting huge sums of money in a cushy job 'my boyfriend' got for me for turning over his client for thirty pieces of silver while being an immoral priest having an _affair_!"

"I know."

"The jury isn't going to know or _care_ that Episcopalians and Roman Catholics have different rules on celibacy or anything _else_. They're not going to _care_ about rules. They're going to see a priest who's a _whore_! And if I'm a whore and a liar then I can't be trusted to say that Morley killed Tina and the others!"

"I know."

She looks up to him, grief transmuted into outrage. "Is that _all_ you can say!"

"Welcome to the Judicial battleground; deadlier and more vicious than any war you'll ever know."

At this moment, she wants nothing more than to be hugged, but there's a deeper concern than for herself and her reputation. Far deeper. "Is Morley going to get off?"

George Donaldson shakes his head, opening his hands. "I don't know."


	9. Oberon

Chapter Nine  
Oberon

Gibbs, paired with McGee, parks his blue Charger across the street from the address provided by Adam Bradley and DiNozzo's car, with Ziva riding shotgun, pulls up behind it. The four agents gather at the forward car but see only a house so like its fellows that an undirected stranger wouldn't pick it out. Certainly it doesn't resemble the headquarters of a Vampire Cult. The sole item that distinguishes this building from its fellows is the large sign planted upon the front lawn.

"'Northern Society for Eclectic Research and Tangential Unity'," DiNozzo reads, "what does that _mean_?" He wishes he had Abby along to translate, but none of them expect Tim McGee to burst out laughing.

Gibbs gives him two - and only two - seconds. "McGee, what the _hell_ is so funny?"

"I'm sorry, boss," he tries to stifle his laughter while pointing at the sign, "but that's just _great_." He catches Gibbs' glare and manages to contain another sputter. "Sorry. Take the first two letters, then each initial and it spells out 'Nosferatu', the German word for 'vampire'."

"Someone has a warped sense of humor," Ziva agrees, not saying who she refers to.

"I'm not laughing," Gibbs declares, leading them across the street and up the stone path. He presses the doorbell and four Sigs clear holsters at a woman's bloodcurdling shriek. They're returned when the artificial nature of the call is realized, but it serves to eliminate any trace of remaining good humor.

The door opens and they're met by Death.

The man is seven feet tall, his impressive natural stature enhanced by shoes Abby would envy. He's so pale as to be paper-white, and between his bloodless lips two sharp fangs protrude. His black robe drapes about him like a cape, while the contacts in his eyes are sickly white wherein the large black pupils of his eyes sit like dots.

"Follow me – – –," his sepulchral voice directs before he turns away.

"Okay, Lurch," Tony quips, ignored by all.

x

The scene is surreal. Patience fades rapidly as they follow the man though black rooms into a candlelit chamber decorated with black drapes that leech all the light. The cloying incense of the smoking brazier in the middle of the room battles the breathable air. When two curtains part on the far end they reveal a rotund bald man clad in black robes seated upon a throne. His eyes are golden, with slits like a cat's.

"Who comes seeking the Vamirii?" his voice booms from every corner of the room.

"When you've led men in combat, it's hard to be impressed by throat mikes and hidden speakers. So how about you cut the theatrics, Mark Velman, and tell us what you know about John Vincent DeKalb and murder?"

The three agents exchange curious glances but say nothing. 'Oberon' touches his throat and then his voice is human.

"Vampiri are not murderers, and he is no vampire."

"I have witnesses that say he thinks he is."

"He is not of our kiss or any other."

"Kiss?" Gibbs' tone is both knowing and mocking.

"Blame popular literature," Velman says, conceding the point. "Everyone ultimately adapts to something."

Gibbs is glad Velman is being cooperative, but he has a good reason; the Vampire King wants to assure them that he and his are innocent. Gibbs will take the answers for the motive. "Your eyes. Does everyone in your 'kiss' do the contacts?"

"Not everyone. There are different breeds of vampiri; each follows slightly varied traditions."

"DeKalb's eyes are green, yours are gold, does that mean anything?"

He hesitates and it takes some moments for him to make up his mind. "It's usually determined by who is one's sire."

"Sire?"

"The one who made him a vampire."

"And who is that?"

Velman shrugs. "We never learned. He lied. I'll give you the name, the whole application if you want, for all the good it'll do you. We never found anyone like that in our community."

"And the fangs? Must be hard to talk or eat."

A slow smile. "You adapt."

Gibbs doesn't bother to ask him to remove either affectation. He doesn't care what Oberon's face looks like, so long as he can read the truth.

x

"Do you know all the vampires?"

"Almost. I know all the Masters."

"And no one's responsible for DeKalb?"

"We believe he was 'self made'."

"Explain." For many moments Velman does not. The team can read the conflict in his eyes, but he eventually seems to decide it's better to share than to have them suspect he or his people are involved in the crimes.

"You join our community through a sponsor, termed a 'sire'. Not an actual crossing over, mind you, just for form. John DeKalb lied on his application, another strike against him. Had he not had a 'sire', one would have been appointed, but to lie is an insult."

"Do any of your people know him?"

"Not so far as I inquired, even before Lord Ankin called."

"Lord Ankin?"

Again that smile. "I'm sure you know him as Adam Bradley."

"How do you know they told the truth?"

Oberon rises from the elevated throne, pulls himself up to his full height, deeply offended. "I am their _Master_!"

Unimpressed, Gibbs pulls the booking photo of Kevin Dobbs from his pocket. "Do you recognize him?"

"That's him, John DeKalb."

xx

Armed with the petition he already knows to be a collection of lies, Gibbs leads his team across to the cars.

"HWA will probably be able to make something of it," Tony suggests, referring to the specialized unit who'll discern answers from DeKalb's handwriting.

"Get them on it. McGee, any hits on that BOLO?"

McGee, having anticipated the question, already has his handheld unit active. "None. We won't get anything until tonight."

"Yeah, and why is that, McGee?"

"DeKalb won't be up and about during the day."

He points back across the street. "These people are."

"Yes," Ziva puts in, though not particularly caring to be in the position of supporting her former love's contention, "but these people seem more stable, playacting within a role, whereas DeKalb is a complete natter."

"Nutter," Tony can't help but correct.

"Yes, well, whatever you wish to call him, it is my contention that we are dealing with a complete sicko, psycho and any other variety you wish to use."

"Ziva's right," Gibbs declares, ending further discussion, "he's going to be following the rules to the letter. We need to remember those rules if we're going to take him down. Meantime, Ziva, track down those colored contacts; bright green fluorescents can't be too hard to trace. DiNozzo, I've got something you can sink your teeth into."

"What's that, boss?"

"Odontology. Find out who makes custom fangs either as dentures or bonded. Get an I.D. on every patient in the past ten years."

"Ten years is a long time, boss; anything to narrow the search?"

"For now, stick to North America."

"Right, boss." He doesn't bother to mask how sorry he is to have asked.

"McGee, you and I will interview Koshi."

"Boss?"

"What, DiNozzo?"

"How did you know 'Oberon' was Mark Velman?"

"Rule 3: Don't believe what you're told. Double check."

"Double check?" He never sees Gibbs' hand come up, only feels the sharp result.

"Something _you_ should've done. I called Adam Bradley back."

x

McGee can hold his tongue only long enough for DiNozzo and David to drive away. "Boss, why did you have me interview Koshi last night right out of surgery if you knew I'd get nothing?"

"You didn't get 'nothing', McGee. Actually, I was impressed by how much you _did_ get. Good job. No, you were there to make sure Abby and O'Mallory stayed to get checked out. I don't know about O'Mallory, but Abby would have ducked out the back door the moment my back was turned. I knew you'd get it done."

"Thanks." Not for anything would he admit to having slept through all of it, but there's no need. As he turns and reaches for the door handle Gibbs' hand cracks sharply against the back of his head. Again.

"The next time I assign you to baby-sit, you stay _awake_!"

McGee isn't surprised that his 'win' column remains empty, not after having reported for work early this morning - feels like two days ago - stiff of muscle from the lounge chair but less than exhausted.

xxx

In GWU Hospital, gold Federal Agent shields do what plastic Visitor Passes cannot and they quickly reach Karen Koshi's, a.k.a. Helen Noel's, room. She's alert now, the blood IV used in the Recovery room is gone, though a clear hydrating liquid still drips down the long tube into her left arm.

"Ms. Koshi, I'm Special Agent Gibbs, this is Special Agent McGee, we're with NCIS. I'd like to ask you a few questions about what happened last night."

Koshi looks past him, clearly trying to grasp a fleeting memory. "Do I know you?"

"We spoke last evening," McGee reminds her, "after you came out of surgery."

"That's right, you're T'Racy's friend."

He's still not sure what that means. "I guess so."

"Miss Koshi," Gibbs cuts in, "I'd like to ask you about the man who attacked you yesterday."

She shakes her head. "I never saw him in 86 before. I have a good memory for faces. It's important at the club for me to remember customers, what they like and so forth."

"Can you tell us anything about him?"

"Not really. He came in, sat down at a table in the back, I went over to take his order. I'm to chat him up a bit, get to know him, customer relations and all. He said he wanted something hot to drink. I didn't think anything of it, I started to tell him some of the things we have. He said he didn't want any of that. What do you want, I asked. Blood.

"Suddenly he was on me, backed me into the corner with his hand over my mouth and _bit _me! I was so hurt I couldn't even _scream_. Do you know what that's like?"

"Yeah, I do."

"I tried to push him off and no one would _help_ me. He was _drinking_ my _blood_ and no one made a move to stop him!" She manages to fight down anger, but it is a long time before she can say, "I think I passed out, and then Agents T'Racy and McGee were standing over me."

Gibbs turns to McGee and catches the pained look on his face. He'll give him pain. "AgentT'Racy?"

"I'll – er – explain later."

"That you will, McGee."

'After I figure it out,' he thinks, appealing for Divine aid even as he pulls a picture out of his jacket pocket. "Is this the man who attacked you?"

"That's him. Catch that maniac – _please_."


	10. The Vampire's Lair

Chapter Ten  
The Vampire's Lair

If hopes could translate into reality it wouldn't be another series of long hours with no progress to show for them. After a time, even Gibbs ceases demanding updates, lets his people work in silence instead as the painful minutes stretch into agonizing hours. Catching a maniac is one thing, finding him quite another. With no activity on his bank account after a massive withdrawal, no phone or any other record activity, no credit card activity, no witnesses, not even an image on any usable surveillance cameras in the neighborhood of Starbase 86 from which to commence a search, they are reduced to eyewitness reports from where he'd made his attacks to establish – or try to establish – a base zone in which to search.

Unfortunately, rather than confining his hunting ground to a small area, he'd spread his rampage over vast distances, so even with several teams to call upon for the legwork, it's a matter of getting onto the street and searching.

Gibbs has kept his own team confined to their desks, coordinating incoming reports, but it's both tedious and frustrating. Kevin Dobbs a.k.a. John Vincent DeKalb, has dropped off the face of the earth. Late afternoon passes into early evening with frustrating tedium for the agents, then DiNozzo looks up from his monitor, "Boss, I think I've found something."

"Fang dentists?" Gibbs demands as he strides across the bullpen. He'd given the research job to him after the meeting with Oberon.

"Sorry, I've been tied up. There are six in the area but I haven't gotten on them."

"Ziva, you've got them. What've _you_ got, DiNozzo?"

"I was tracing Kevin Dobbs backward through the places he and his mother lived when he wasn't in Juvie or Asylums. Apparently they bounced around a lot as she looked for places he wasn't known." He continues talking while typing rapidly. "I admit I'm left with just my gut."

"Gut is good, DiNozzo."

"I sure hope so. From 1991 to 1994 they lived in Wythe, three blocks from a house that in 2002 went under for Foreclosure and was abandoned. Apparently in its declining years it was quite a fixer-upper."

He brings up on the plasma screen a high altitude photo, a Google satellite image barely resolving into a two story house. Specialized software further resolves the image, allowing him to focus more closely. Since the house had been on the outer edge of the image it's not shown at a perpendicular angle. He then shifts to another on-line program offering street-level views.

These, taken in a panoramic view from two blocks away from a junkyard that ends the street, show the forward edge of the building. DiNozzo works to improve the image, sharpening it until they can make out a structure at the end of the dead end. It's so dilapidated it instantly fits their mental image of a vampire's lair. Paint has peeled from most of its surface, windows are boarded up, and the front yard is thick with trash.

"How is it we didn't see this place sooner?"

It's barely necessary to answer that. "The property is on a back road next to an auto junkyard, basically just stacks of wrecked cars, I suppose kind of like Abby's old place? It's pretty much ignored and forgotten. It's on the Foreclosure / Resale / Urban Renewal list for the past couple of years, no one's touching it. Except maybe your friendly neighborhood vampire-man, that is."

Gibbs stares at the wreck, reluctant to make the call. In one sense it fits the stereotype of a vampire's lair, in another: "It fits too damned well."

"Boss?" McGee prompts.

"Only a brain dead moron would use that as a secret hideout."

"A brain dead moron," Ziva contends, "who bites women and drinks their blood?"

He doesn't like feeling the fool, but, "You're right, we have to check it out, if only to eliminate the ludicrous. Gear up."

xxx

Forty minutes later, still with the feeling that he is being made to look like a fool, a very aggravated Gibbs stands with DiNozzo, McGee and David before the gate of the real life 'haunted house'. The dilapidated home is long past its demolition time, and had probably seen its last good day before President Nixon had.

"Let's get this over with so we can get back to work." Gibbs pushes open the metal gate, having to use considerably more force than should be necessary to move the rust clogged hinges. They cross the overgrown, rubbish strewn path to the low deck whose warped boards have probably not known the weight of a human in years. They stop at the wooden door, Gibbs wondering when it was last opened. Considering the lock covered with rust, it's been far too many years.

"Ziva."

She shakes her head. "I am not ruining my tools on that thing."

Not inclined to blame nor chastise her, Gibbs decides on a more satisfying method of gaining admittance and easing his aggravation. A hard kick blasts the door inward in a rain of dust and debris. The interior is black, well boarded windows keeping out the light.

DiNozzo looks from the blackness back to Gibbs. "Is this a bad time to mention my on-going phobia about vampires?"

"You'd better have more of a phobia about _me_. Five minutes."

They pull out flashlights. "Bet I can do it in three."

"Then lead the way."

"When will I keep my mouth shut?"

"Been wondering about that for years."

x

By the probing beams of four flashlights they scan the sparsely furnished living room, every surface covered with a thick cake of dust. There's a small collection of furniture remaining, probably such things as were abandoned by the owner upon foreclosure, and a staircase against the left wall leads upstairs. The air is smoky in the beams from the dust raised in the door's opening.

"Not a–"

DiNozzo is cut short by the sound of McGee's Sig clearing its holster, the beam of his flash rapidly scanning every corner of the room. Three more guns are immediately in hands and aimed about the room before the first scan is complete.

"What've you got?" Gibbs demands, his back to the others, his Sig covering the door leading to a hallway to the left. He doesn't have to glance to know the other quarters of the room are similarly covered.

Not relaxing his vigilance, McGee angles his light to a table across the room and there's no need for words. Upon that table are the only items not covered by dust; a half burned candle and a stack of variously colored panties and bras, many stained with dried blood.

"I ever tell you," DiNozzo asks no one in particular, "how much I hate Halloween?"

x

"Costa still had her underwear," Gibbs reminds them.

"She had white underwear," Ziva points out. The piles contain a variety of colors Costa wouldn't have worn under a white uniform.

"I count four matching sets," McGee announces. Inspection of the pile will undoubtedly reveal many more.

Gibbs isn't going to admit aggravation had led him to forget a back door. He'll give himself a wake-up slap later. "Let's get this bastard."

"I'm sure he heard you knock," DiNozzo warns.

x

A thorough, tandem inspection of the four rooms on the main floor yields neither a vampire nor a hiding place for one. It does, however, reveal a working back door in the kitchen. A close inspection with the flashlights reveals, in dust and rust, that this door has been used recently, probably frequently.

"Sun hasn't set yet," DiNozzo points out.

"Not even close."

"Boss?" McGee's light is trained on another door, perhaps to the basement. They converge at that door.

"DiNozzo, David, you've got upstairs. McGee, you're with me." He's not happy to split the team, but doesn't want DeKalb flanking them and escaping. He doesn't trust that DeKalb will be sleeping with the afternoon sun shining; psychosis must surely give way to survival instincts. "Remember, this bastard threw two grown women ten feet. You see him, you take him out."

As Ziva and Tony head for the upward stairs in the living room, Gibbs shines his light into the black depths. Looking down into the abyss, McGee doesn't want to go in but there's no choice. The only thing worse than facing a homicidal, super-strong psychopath, in pitch darkness, is admitting fear to Gibbs.

Together they descend the creaking steps, knowing there is no way to disguise their approach. The beams of their flashes slice through the blackness, marking their positions, but they don't find a murderous vampire.

The discovery they make is far worse.

x

The black basement is a single vast space filled with row upon row of coffins, four or more to a row, thirteen in all. The polished wood reflects the beams of the flashes that pass over them. The ones furthest away, near the wall, reflect slightly less well, their gleam dimmed by dust.

What they all have in common are silver hasps and padlocks holding the lids in place.

They step up to the nearest coffin, finding none that are not secured. "McGee, can your phone camera thingy get pictures in this light?" There are only the two flashes for illumination.

"I can enhance the images to as bright as we need," he assures him, tucking the flashlight under his arm and pulling out his phone. "Still or video?"

Gibbs hadn't forgotten the option on McGee's new phone since he'd broken up the catfight in Operations. "Video." He scans the room, the beam spearing a pegboard above a worktable across the room, upon which hang various tools. Crossing to it, he pulls on a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and removes a crowbar.

Returning to the coffin closest to the stairs, it apparently the newest one, he inserts an inch of the metal through the thinner ring of the hasp, ignoring the much thicker lock. Fingerprints and other evidence might be obtained from it. He leans into the bar, shoves hard, the ring breaks and the still sealed lock falls to the floor.

He looks up, receives McGee's confirming nod and lifts the lid.

He wishes he hadn't, for the sight that accompanies the waft of nauseating effluvium will fill their nightmares for years to come.

x

The woman's unclothed body is partially decomposed, flesh sloughed from muscle and bone. Her hair is wildly disheveled, her eyelids wide over shrunken orbs, her decayed face locked in a mask of horror, mouth wide in a silent scream. Her hands are still raised to the limit of the low coffin lid, fingers curled in claws, nails ripped from several fingers, flesh torn from bones. A scan of the lid shows shredded material, nail-marks gouged into the wood. She'd been far from scratching through the thick wood when she'd died.

"Boss?"

"I know, McGee." Gibbs expects the younger man to complain of nausea and horror. He'd rather not maintain his stoic front either.

"I think I know what he's doing."

x

The statement is just surprising enough. "What?" He restrains himself from moving the beam of light to the man beside him. There are details to record.

"When I was a kid I saw this vampire movie. I don't remember much about it but the villagers in Transylvania were afraid that, after being murdered, this girl might come back as a vampire. So they padlocked her coffin. She did come back, and one by one the locks fell off the rings whole. The locks were locked and the hasps unbroken, but one by one each fell off. Scared the life out of me.

"But I think that's what DeKalb is doing; looking for a vampire he made that can pass his test."

Chilled, Gibbs takes out his own phone and pushes a speed dial combination. "Duck, we found that bastard's hellhole," he gives the address and directions. "You're going to be until tomorrow transporting–" he's interrupted by a titanic crash from high above, accented by a gunshot.

xx

DiNozzo, though knowing it's hopeless, tries the light switch at the top of the stairs. Neither he nor Ziva say a word as they shine their beams down the silent hall, finding two doors on each side, the one to their immediate left open. Each knows the enemy lies in wait for them, alerted by the noise of their arrival. They cannot withdraw, cannot hope for more light; all windows are boarded up and restoring power is out of the question. They must search, in late-afternoon, through utter blackness for a murderous madman.

"We should have a SWAT team," DiNozzo says quietly as they stand outside a bedroom, their lights scanning it.

"We already have a large and deadly force."

"How do you figure that?" Four against one are not enough odds for him today, and in the dim backlight of their flashes he can just make out the woman beside him.

"Simple," she assures him, her shadowed face wreathed in a smile, "you are large, and I am deadly."

His light fixes on a particular point, "and I found something to help."

x

He's happy to see, on a night table next to the bed pressed against the left wall, a tall white candle. It's barely used, set upon a silver candlestick next to a box of matches.

Powerful as their flashes are, he will take the omni-directional glow of a good flame any day. Entering the nearly black room under Ziva's cover, he sets his flash upon its end on the table, the light lancing upward, then opens the box and lights the candle.

To their dark-accustomed eyes the glow fills the room with welcome light, allowing them to see everything. A large mirror rests upon a bureau across the room. Picking up the candle by its once silver stand, he brings it across the room and deposits it before the mirror, doubling the room's light.

The bedroom remains dimmer than he would like, but he knows he'll never have the 500 watts he'd prefer. They can see the room had been stripped of whatever could be used before the furniture had been abandoned as useless or unwanted. There's no place a vampire might hide, other than a door near the head of the stripped bed.

At his nod, Ziva steps in to cover the door as DiNozzo crosses to it, out of the line of fire. His own Sig ready in his right hand, he reaches for the knob.

The door explodes outward and a solid mass of black slams into him, knocking him off his feet. Ziva's gunshot is loud over his body slamming to the floor.

He's sure his eyes close for only an instant but when he can see again DeKalb has Ziva's body high over his head like a manic wrestler. He throws her to the floor; she slams down hard enough to splinter the floorboards and doesn't move.

Tony sits up and aims his gun but a kick batters it from his hand and two hands clutch his jacket. He's yanked off the floor like a rag doll, his six foot body borne across the room to slam with bone-jarring force into the wall.

Before he can move a hand clutches his throat!

Tony pries at the crushing grip, feeling his feet leave the floor. He stops prying and punches DeKalb, kicks him as hard as he can. He strains for breath, gagging for air. The grip changes, fingers and thumb crush his jaw, now no longer strangling him. He doubles his attack, seeing in the shadowed monster's glowing green eyes his deadly intent.

x

Ziva had managed to tuck her head forward as her body crashed to the floor, so she's able to shake off the daze and sits up. She searches for her gun in the dimness before she sees her partner's plight, pinned high to the wall by the murderous madman.

She's halfway off the floor when DeKalb twists his hand and a sharp snap cuts the air. Ziva's furious cry reverberates through the room as Tony's arms fall limply to his sides. His head lolls forward and his still body hangs lifeless against the wall.


	11. Dead

Chapter Eleven  
Dead

John DeKalb turns from the limp body to the appalled woman on the floor. He opens his hand, Tony's body crashes to his feet and he advances on Ziva like a leopard, hungry for her sweet, hot blood.

Ziva scrabbles in the dark for either lost black Sig, trying not to think of the brutal murder of her friend. She stands no chance, unarmed, against his speed and strength. She feels more than sees the madman's inexorable approach. She looks up and DeKalb vanishes in a blur of furious Marine.

DeKalb crashes into the wall near DiNozzo's body. Gibbs pummels him with devastating blows, batters the madman with punches so fast and powerful they blur in the dimness.

Tim hauls Ziva to her feet, but neither can look away from the brutal pummeling the incensed agent metes out. Gibbs' fists slam so hard and fast DeKalb is pinned to the wall.

As the dénouement to the brutal vengeance, Gibbs grabs DeKalb's shirt, hauls the bloody man off the wall, across the room to the boarded window. Wood and glass explode outward and welcome daylight takes their places as DeKalb plummets to the overgrown lawn below.

Gibbs hadn't cared if DeKalb had bounced, impaled himself on glass and wood or went straight through. He is content.

The three furious agents look down from the portal to the real world, shielding their eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun. The monster writhes upon the grass, shrieking his agony. He tries to cover up in an impossible effort to escape the sunlight. Gradually he goes limp, within the minute he is still.

"Boss? Do you suppose he's dead?"

Their answer comes from behind them in a long, pained groan. They turn, astonishment morphing into delight as DiNozzo turns onto his back, one hand reaching up to his wrenched neck. They are about to go to him en masse, but Gibbs blocks McGee.

"You cover _him_," he points emphatically out the window. "If that bastard moves, _shoot_ him!"

Gibbs joins Ziva at their friend's side as Tony forces his eyes open. "Just lay still until Ducky checks you out," he commands as Tony cautiously massages his neck.

"No argument from me," his words are a long groan. "He might have become a good chiropractor, almost as good as you, but I'm siding with O'Mallory on this one."

"How so?"

"I want a raise."

x

Ziva will continue her own expression of relief at a more opportune time, for now she must relieve McGee at the window so he can go out and inspect their prisoner. A minute later McGee, examining the body, calls up to the shattered window. "Boss?" A moment later Gibbs joins Ziva, "I think he's dead."

"I heard two shots," Gibbs says, referring to the blasts that had called him and McGee up from the basement.

"I am sure I missed with mine," Ziva admits, glancing at the hole in the closet door. DeKalb's speed had been appalling.

"Ditto me," DiNozzo says from the floor, not wanting to raise or even move his head.

"I can't find any blood on him or on the grass where he rolled." McGee calls up, ignoring the damages to face and body that aren't gunshot wounds. He knows the source of those injuries.

"Then how can he be dead?" Gibbs calls down.

"That's what I was hoping to ask you. How is he dead?"

xx

"It's not an unknown phenomenon, Jethro," Ducky explains a half hour later as they stand on either side of the body. NCIS and Metro Police vehicles crowd the street, uniformed officers fill the house and grounds. "The brain is a powerful tool, and belief a potent source of physical manifestation. In this case I would say Mr. DeKalb's fixation on vampirism was so powerful, and so consumed his life, that he believed implicitly in all its advantages and disadvantages."

"Are you telling me he _believed_ that sunlight would kill him, so he died?"

Ducky extends his hands above her body. "Until I find another cause at his autopsy, I can only say that the evidence is before you."

"What are you going to put on the death certificate?"

The question gives him a moment's pause. "I shall have to think about that one, though I suppose photophobia could be a reasonable contributing factor."

"Good luck with that one." Gibbs has heard of it as a disease, but never as a C.o.D.

He turns from the collection of vehicles crowding the street to the house full of police and agents. This will be a very long afternoon and evening. He's grateful, however, that this time he doesn't have to engage in a jurisdictional turf war: DeKalb, murderer of a Seaman Apprentice and assailant of four NCIS personnel, killed in an Agency operation, is most definitely theirs. Lt. Jeffery Carpenter of MPDC Homicide is more than welcome to the thirteen bodies already in coffins in the basement.

xx

DiNozzo groans as Samantha Sky, clad in the extra-small blue field coveralls, secures the brace to his neck and shoulders as Ziva hovers nearby.

"There, Agent DiNozzo, that should hold you until you can get x-rays taken."

"You've a good touch," he says warmly, "and a wonderful bedside manner."

She smiles and an instant later Ziva is at her shoulder. The dark woman kneels closer to DiNozzo, not touching Sammy yet crowding her aside with her manner more than her body. "Yes, expertly done, but you will find thirteen bodies in the basement more suited to your pathological skills."

Sammy's smile remains on her lips, yet it is there only through greater effort. "As you wish." She manages not to sound cold as she gets up and leaves, but that too requires effort.

DiNozzo looks up into his partner's brown eyes, seeing things he hadn't expected.

"How are you?" she asks, not allowing him the moment.

"How are _you_? That was some slam."

"I have had worse."

"I'd expected you'd land on your feet, like any cat." He can tell he's lost her. "You're showing your claws."

"You do not need the assistance of a twenty four year old girl."

He doesn't mention that twenty four is hardly a 'girl'. "What do I need?"

"I thought you were dead."

x

He doesn't need a map to follow that detour. "When I couldn't beat him, couldn't shoot him, I decided to play possum until you could blow him away. When he went all Chiro on my neck I thought that was as good a time as any; but I didn't expect it to hurt worse than one of Gibbs' demonstrations. I'll be fine, though."

"No, you shall not."

"I won't?"

"Not without a night of bed-rest together with extensive physical therapy."

He smiles. There's nothing like shared near-death experience to enhance the libido. "Doctor, I leave myself entirely in your hands."

Unfortunately, Sammy's prediction for the rest of his afternoon proves more accurate than Ziva's. He will ultimately be allowed to return home, under his partner's escort, late that evening, but the painkillers will assure him of a challenging evening.

xxx

It's early evening when Ducky and Samantha, with only one corpse to concern them, return to Autopsy.

He wheels the gurney up to the first silver table, locks the wheels and prepares the implements they will need. Samantha changes in the store room out of the blue coveralls into more appropriate, and smaller, blue scrubs. When she returns, Ducky pulls down the zipper of the black bag.

DeKalb sits up with a feral roar, grabs Ducky and flings the astonished man across the room. He falls near the wall and the monster turns on Samantha, hissing threateningly. She shrieks, seeing his long fangs and runs for the door. DeKalb kicks out of the body bag and catches her before she can get out the sliding door. She struggles desperately, unable to resist his manic strength as he drags her back into the room and slams her against the bank of coolers, enjoying her screams. He grabs the scrubs top at her neck and rips the garment in half, baring her demi-bra covered breasts.

"Let – her – _go_." Ducky's deadly command silences even Samantha's terrified screams. When DeKalb glances back to face this challenge the angry man stands across the room before his desk, a gun held in each steady hand.

x

For a long moment no one moves, DeKalb stares into Ducky's grim visage and at the twin weapons.

"Back away _now_." The guns are trained upon the center of the vampire's back.

DeKalb turns to the small woman, barely feeling her ineffectual struggles, eyes fixed on her heaving breasts. With a bestial roar and the speed of a viper he strikes, Sammy's screech reverberates through the room.

Two shots are lost under her shriek but DeKalb stops before reaching her, his roar cut off in a startled gasp. He tries again and Ducky's third shot is no louder than a cough. DeKalb stops again and slowly collapses to his knees.

With his head now no higher than Sammy's chest, he tries again. Sammy still can't hold the madman off as her mentor fires again, striking DeKalb's neck.

DeKalb slips away, falls onto his back and lies still.

x

"You – you _killed_ him!" She can't believe this. None of it could be real. He'd been dead, her confused and terrified mind insists, but Ducky killed him.

"No, my dear," he shows her the guns, "these are loaded with sedative darts. Even four doses will not prove fatal, though why he is still alive is something I look forward to learning, since I pronounced him dead." He sets them on a tray, ignoring her shredded top that hangs loose before her. "No, these weapons were actually borrowed from Bethesda Psychiatry and I am actually fortunate to have been careless enough to neglect to return–"

Samantha breaks from the wall, leaps over her slumbering attacker's body, dashes across the room, hops up and throws her arms about her savior.

Ducky is quite unable to continue his explanation while his face is being peppered with kisses.

x

Gibbs steps through the sliding doors and halts at the sight of their dead prisoner sprawled upon the floor near the cooling units and Samantha held aloft in Ducky's arms as she kisses him over and over. Ducky notices Gibbs first and quite guiltily pushes Sammy away, lowering her to the floor.

She turns, sees him and quickly yanks the fragments of her blue scrubs top back up, blushing at her exposure.

"Anything you want to tell me, grandpa?"


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue

Samantha has retreated to the storeroom near Ducky's desk and doesn't return through all the time that Gibbs and a plethora of agents are in the room. Gibbs has ordered the unconscious madman secured in a mélange of restraints including straight jacket, manacles and heavy chains. If a muzzle were available, he'd've have ordered that too, but by the time DeKalb is wheeled out he is quite thoroughly secured. Before he awakens he will be in Holding behind a steel door.

"Those fangs had been bonded to his incisor teeth," Ducky explains. "The contact lenses were treated with a florescent coating that makes them glow after having been exposed to light, which supports Abby's testimony."

"MPDC found thirteen panties, eleven bras in that 'souvenir pile'," Gibbs can't keep the disgust from his tone. There are five, six counting Koshi, who are alive; the bodies in the coffins have been dead from a week up to a month. "McGee's upstairs backtracking DeKalb." He doesn't really want to know what the man will find.

x

"I blame myself, Jethro." Gibbs doesn't try to conceal his surprise. "I pronounced him _dead_! I was fooled by a catatonic stupor brought about by psychological malady and trauma affecting even autonomic functions to reduce them to a minimal state; something in which I am quite well read! But that is pathologically fatal in only 87 percent of cases, this is unforgivable. And if not for my _additional _carelessness in not returning those tranquilizer guns to Mike Potok when I should have, Miss Sky would have paid a ghastly price."

"But that didn't happen."

"That's not the _point_. I have the knowledge that should have led me to a proper diagnosis. I did not _make_ a proper diagnosis and Samantha might have died. I should be sacked for incompetence!"

Gibbs' hand to the back of his friend's head contains no force but does get his attention. "You are the most competent man I know and NCIS can't get along without you," he waits until Ducky looks up at him, "and neither can I."

"Thank you, Jethro."

There is much unsaid between them, but neither man is a 'hugger', given to overt displays of feelings. Gibbs turns, leaves through the sliding doors. When the elevator takes him away, Ducky is alone.

x

"I can't get along without you either," a soft voice makes him turn. Samantha, her scrubs top replaced, stands by the storeroom door.

"Miss Sky," guilt obscures his words.

"I barely know you," the petite woman confesses, somehow seeming even smaller, so removed from her consistently high élan, "but you've taught me so much. I've come to appreciate you, to need you." She approaches slowly, her voice barely audible. "I look forward every morning to seeing you, I'm thankful every night for the hours I could spend with you. I would hate it very much if I were in any way the cause of your leaving."

She stops before him, looking up into his eyes, her pale blue eyes gleaming with tears she won't allow herself to shed. "Please, Ducky. Please stay."

"Miss Sky …"

"Please."

"All right."

She hugs him, her head pressed to his heart, and the rest is silence.

o

Next Episode: Autopsy Atrocities  
Over the years Donald Mallard has used his skills to piece together evidence which has solved the most puzzling mysteries. But now his skills _are_ the modus operandi, and clues point to one of his best friends.


End file.
